


Vendetta

by Walor



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Jason doesn't get along with the bat family yet, M/M, Major Character Injury, Non-Consensual Touching, Omega Verse, Panic Attacks, Slow Burn, Tags/Warnings to be added later, mentions of past rape/non-con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-05-13 09:59:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 64,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14746694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Walor/pseuds/Walor
Summary: Jason is an omega. Only Bruce knows about his status and has kept his secret from the rest of the family and the world since Jason told him. After a mission gone terribly wrong, Bruce has no choice but to out him to the world which restricts his life in a way he has feared since early childhood.No longer able to hide along the outskirts of society as the long-lost-now-returned Jason Peter Wayne, he has to learn to adapt to a world that desires and shuns him. Dick, critically injured during the same mission, is made to be Jason's permanent guardian. Neither are happy about it.At least the tabloids have something to write about.





	1. Blood Feud

Jason likes Havana.

It's bright, full of vibrant blues, pinks, oranges, and greens that soak in the Caribbean sun. The buildings are packed together, but in a way that feels tightknit and safe in comparison to the imposing, multi-level towers of Gotham. The salty sea air and ocean breeze are charming where Gotham Harbor with its murky blue-almost-black water and smog-thick fog is not. Palm trees on every open corner with book vendors dotted along the road to the Finca Vigía, waving copies of _El Viejo y el Mer_. _The Old Man and the Sea_. Jason has--or well _had_ \--a 1956 print copy, treasured and well-loved in the Wayne Manor grand library, tucked in between two heavy medical encyclopedias. Quickly put away on the eve before a mission and summarily forgotten. Par for the course, death does tend to make you forget a few or more things.

He can see why Hemingway and others would pick Cuba, warm and friendly as it is, to find inspiration for their work. Hardly surprising a murderous and equally pretentious asshole with a proclivity for starting revolutions--but missed home just enough--would elect Cuba as a foundation for a new empire. Honestly, Bane, if you didn't want to be discovered so quickly you shouldn't have chosen a country that was identical to Santa Prisca in every way.

Hours spent decrypting an email between Bane and his Gotham arms contact tell Jason he's due in a few minutes to meet whoever's coming on behalf of the arms dealer. Which could be anyone since Roman Sionis is currently serving life in Blackgate. Or at least until his lawyer gets him out on house arrest. So Jason's set himself up on a balcony overlooking the Plaza Vieja in Old Havana in nothing but plain street clothes. The plaza is mostly empty, the iconic Carrara marble fountain gushing diligently in the center while working men and women have noonday brunch on nearby tables. Of all the places Bane would choose to meet a contact Jason would have never pinned it on a place so obviously public.

Considering Bane is, well, anything but inconspicuous.

A sudden yowl startles Jason from his quiet observation. A cat, small and speckled with dirty white paws, sprints out onto the plaza. It is alone for only a moment then three bigger; grimy tomcats dart out from the shadows. A group of boys, young and flushed with that kind of boyhood pride that comes with the onset of puberty, slip out of the alleyway. They whoop and laugh as they trail after the cats with delighted glee. Boxing in the small tabby when she tries to escape. The three toms, almost unaware of the boys, creep towards their prize. Then they attack.

Even three stories above the plaza their snarling and spitting is clear to Jason. The boys clap when the biggest tomcat, a mangy thing with an ugly face, draws blood from the sleek, solid brown one. The queen tries to flee during the fight, but one of the boys grabs her, ignoring her outraged hiss and drops her into the center. She bats and yowls at the two, snarling and growling while the smallest male, no better than a puffy black ball of fur belly crawls to her side. He licks where the others wound and eventually her spitting fades and the tension leaves her. That is when he strikes, more vicious and violent than the two males combined. Teeth clamped as tight as a bear trap around her bony neck. The boys cheer.

Disgust is a visceral reaction. Hot bile tacky in the back of his throat that continually builds the longer he hears the boys laugh, arrogant and stupid. Jason is halfway standing up to step off the balcony for find someplace with less decent a view when Bane, mask hidden and venom equipment gone, chases the boys away. " _Piérdete_."

The boys run, as do the cats, scrambling across the plaza abandoning the bloody queen in Bane's monstrous shadow. Bane's companion, a prickly, little Gothamite with pushed up glasses and a suit that would've fed Jason for months as a child sneers. "I don't understand what you see in a place like this. The people are no better than the filthy animals."

"I have made a promise to your employer not to rip out your spine while you were here. That agreement ends when you return to Gotham. Continue to speak in such a manner and I will make sure you are dead within the hour of your arrival.” The man--upturned nose, perpetual scowl, Jason recognizes Roman's lap dog, David Li, instantly--glares but decides that further provoking the man that put Batman out of commission isn't the best course of action. It's the smartest thing he's said since showing up.

Bane turns away from the cat. It mewls pathetically for comfort that will never come and takes a seat at a nearby table. Jason watches. Quiet and careful while the cat limps off into the shadows to hide before the next animal or boy picks up her scent and chases her down. The sour taste in his mouth only grows the longer the men talk.

"The equipment you asked for is docking tonight off San Pedro near the ferry terminal. There's a shipping warehouse nearby where we will store the guns for transport. I assume you'll transfer the money after you have proof?" Bane nods and Li ruffles around through his coat pocket and slides Bane a slip of paper. The sunglasses Jason slip on--a little something he snagged on his way out of Bruce's cave months ago--gives him a clear picture of the address and meeting time. 8 pm that evening in warehouse B with the ship's name, _Orpheus_. Fitting, Roman always was an arrogant bastard.

"You can bring a few of your lieutenants or revolutionaries," Li waves his hand, "or whatever kind of associates you have to see the equipment. Just make sure you aren't followed and have the money."

"I expect the same courtesy," Bane stands up and stares down at David, almost thoughtful. "Do not stay in the harbor long."

"Believe me, the last thing I want to do is stay here for longer than I have to. Eduardo will be watching the men so don't get any ideas. Unless you want to lose more of that face."

Jason only knows one Eduardo, which means things just got a lot more complicated. But when has his life ever been anything but?

Bane leaves first and then Li a few minutes later. Jason slips down from the roof and over to the alley where the little, dirty tabby lingers. She hisses at him when he reaches out, tentative, before offering her a bit of jerky he keeps for emergencies. The scent of food and her exposed ribs outweighs the safety of the shadows. Before long he is able to coax her into his lap where she sits and lets Jason pet her. It does little to settle the roiling in his stomach, but it is methodical and relaxing. By the time he lets her go his nerves have settled and he can hide the memory of the boys away in the back of his mind.

 _Men_.

* * *

Jason was too young for his father to know what he was. His mother must have, cleaning him off in the bloody tub she'd given birth to him in. There was no mistaking his secondary sex; he was an omega. Jason’s mother never took him to a hospital and unless you got a definite view of someone's privates in the bathroom stalls, no one knew his designation either. There are days when Jason wonders if that was the purpose of his mother never telling him or his father what he was. Crime Alley was a bad and vile place where little boys and girls went missing in the backs of vans all the time. Who knows what would have happened had his father known of his status. The rare thing that he was, his father would have made a fortune whether he planned to keep or sell him.

Men were men and women were women. Omegas neither, nearly bred out of existence when old men hundreds of years ago declared them abominations. A threat to the purity of women and an irresistible temptation to men. The Lilith to the obedient and lovely Eve and Adam.

"They are dangerous creatures, alluring and attractive with the intensity of a man and the softness of a woman. They are disloyal and flighty beings that will throw themselves at the feet of the nearest man. He is helpless to defend himself against their lust. Omegas are not suitable marriage partners as they will roll over for anyone where a good woman would crucify herself before she would do the same." The Bible.

“Useless as a man with biological heats that made them less likely to produce heirs as fast as a woman. Hormone-addled, they could do the job of a man while being as pliant as a woman. Their survival came in the form of babies born from prostitutes unwilling to part with their beloved children. Born in secrecy and forced to live a life as one gender or the other.” His American history textbook.

Many died, and the lives of those that survived had were no better than walking dead.

Now they are wanted again. Coveted for their scarceness and disposition for soft-spoken submissiveness. The world sees them little more than an object to be owned. It is why there is an Omegan Registry, for the world as a whole to know the status of the population. Jason distrusts most government mandates and sees it for what it is, a ledger of ownership. Omegas require a guardian at all stages of their life. The UN says it's to make sure they don't go missing, sold into sexual slavery where even old omegas fetch a hefty price from European millionaires. Jason knows it's always been about control. Authority is as authority does. They are forbidden from certain jobs like the armed forces, police, firefighting, medical or anything where their "scents" would distract their co-workers. Only capable of holding lower position or assistant jobs because "corporate leaders couldn't go missing days every two months for heats."

Jason discovers the truth about what he is during a health education class in his first year at Gotham Academy. He spends the entire day and majority of the night locked inside the crawl space of the Wayne Manor attic sobbing hysterically. Terrified Bruce would take away the only good thing he'd ever had in his short, miserable life. A life that had looked so bright months ago had, in the course of an hour, been muted and snuffed out. Jason, furious and heartbroken, refused to be bribed out of the attic despite Alfred's numerous soothing words.

In the end, it was only the comforting words of his father that had gotten his attention. Bruce sat beside the crawl space for hours, pulled out of an important meeting with Fox and other board members by a frantic Alfred. He said nothing when he arrived. Just sat there while Jason sniffled and cried into the rough fabric of his shirt.

"Jason," he said, gentler than Jason had ever heard him. The sun was just starting to go down leaving the attic a fiery, vivid orange. "Why are you upset?"

Jason wiped his red nose against his snot-stained sleeve. "I can't tell you."

"Why not?" Bruce didn't push. He said it soft, barely louder than a whisper, concern so palpable in his voice it felt like Bruce had reached into his chest and gripped his heart. He started crying again, hot tears spilling down his cheeks.

"I-I," Jason stuttered and buried his face in his hands. "I'm an _omega_. O-Omegas can't be police officers, o-or firemen, or _Robin_. We're too distracting, we're not meant for it. Please, please, Bruce is there something you can do? Can you fix it? Please, I don't want to be an omega I want to be Robin. It's all I've ever wanted and now I can't."

Bruce was silent for a long moment. Jason thought that was it. The secret was out and now Bruce was deciding how to get rid of him. He'd invested so much money into a son and had instead gotten an omega. The shame was nearly enough to swallow Jason whole.

Then _Batman_ spoke. "Come here, Jason."

He offered his hand into the crawl space. Jason hesitated and took it, squeezing it tightly with both of his small hands as Bruce pulled him out of the enclosed space. Blue eyes, incandescent in the harsh fading rays of the sun stared down at him. It left Jason quaking, vulnerable, but for the first time that night unafraid. Then Jason was in his arms. Tight against his chest like Bruce thought he was about to be swept away if he let go.

"You are not an omega. You are _Jason Todd_ , my son and my Robin. You are more than just a biological designation and there is no one I trust to be by my side more than _you_."

And Jason wept. Cried so hard his throat went hoarse and his fingertips went numb, clinging to Bruce's side for the entire night. Bruce never told anyone about Jason's designation. Never outed him to the Omegan Registry and made Leslie swear to never tell anyone when she was made his primary doctor. Let Jason borrow his cologne when puberty started to hit and Jason's scent began to change. Dick and Barbara never knew.

Then Jason died and Bruce replaced his disobedient omega with a perfectly normal son.

The hurt that came with the betrayal, having his father figure whom he adored with nothing short of a devotion that only zealots possessed, even months later is still a raw, open wound in his chest. He shouldn't have been surprised anyway. Why should Bruce care about the omega that had left him? Jason's instincts, the caring and sweet-hearted boy who would have done anything for a mother that wanted little with him, had led him to his death. It would be better for everyone if Bruce didn't have another child that would go gallivanting off whenever fancy struck.

Self-hatred is a hard beast to kill.

At least with an ocean between himself and the rest of Bruce's martyrs, he can breathe without the worry of disappointing the nearest Bat. There was a lot more he could do to help Gotham, and the world in general, following the garbage back to their nests instead of waiting for them to reappear in the city with more men and greater firepower. And if it took him to places like Havana, that was even better.

The warehouse where Li said the rest of the False Face Society would store the guns is a plain brick building with windows on the high level. Half of them are broken and Jason tags them--then dismisses them--as possible points of entry. A large doorway fit for semi trucks hauling the shipping containers to and from the large tankers in the harbor remains open. Jason sets up shop on the roof of a church building across the street in the decorative tower holding the bell a few hours before the time set on the note.

An hour of observation later reveals that the False Face members are separated from the regular dock uniforms by the type of boots they wear, a subtle shade of darker gray. They are halfway through unloading the _Orpheus_ when Jason first arrives. The ship nestled between two enormous barges hidden from passing Cuban police cruisers. They work in a constant pattern, unloading crates and blue oil barrels from the ship. A group of men walks out of the warehouse while another makes their way in, directing the forklift through the throngs of scurrying workers and tourists. It would be better to wait for them to finished unloading. There are enough weapons in there to supply an entire continent of fighters let alone an island as small as Cuba. Attacking now and letting the _Orpheus_ get away with half of the weapons is not particularly ideal. Then again, Jason hates stakeouts as much as the Wayne Charity Gala.

He spots Eduardo by the atrocious pink dye job. Sorry, did he say atrocious? He meant god-awful cotton candy shade of pink that would make little girls pinch their noses in disgust. Flamingo and Black Mask, Jason's heard of weirder partners. Then again, Roman didn't exactly have a face for Eduardo to chew on when he got hungry. Match made in hell. He's half tempted to just jump off the church roof and take out Eduardo as a bonus before he scurries back into whatever hole he's been hiding in.

It could have been a battle of wills. Impatience versus smarts, that is right up until he sees a little peek of Bludhaven black and blue. _Of, fucking, course_. Should have known. Why would Bruce let Jason go running about on his own, unstable as he was? He'd send the prodigal son out on babysitting duty to make sure Jason wasn't hurting anyone that didn't need to be. And if there was one thing Jason hated more than being looked after like a convict under house arrest it was having his every move studied by the Robin who could do no wrong. Spite and anger win out over forcing a confrontation with Dick "perfect-in-every-fucking-way" Grayson. Firmly cementing himself in the bell tower and waits for nearly an hour before the shadows behind him change.

"Am I in trouble?" Jason starts. Argumentative, blame his genes.

"Why would you be?" Now spotted Dick loops around the bell and sits beside him. Dangles his feet off the edge with carefree, child-like joy that he never lost even after watching his parents eat shit big time.

"Considering you're sitting next to me and not currently hiking up the nearest skirt in Gotham means I've fucked up somehow." Jason has never subscribed to the idea that Dick was the end all be all in terms of hottest human to walk the planet Earth. However, when his face falls flat and the light beginnings of hostility begin to darken his cheeks Jason considers that he might be kind of attractive.

"Jason," Dick says.

"Dick."

"I'm not here to fight you," and even Dick sounds a little upset about that. When was the last time they saw each other? Fighting over Bruce's mantle feels like ages ago, couldn't be that. Maybe something with Scarlet? Stripping Dick and boy blunder Damian down to their pants had been hilarious. Seemed the most likely too, no better way to piss Dick off faster than messing with his baby bat. If only that loyalty applied to everyone in the family.

"You're here, evidence to the contrary, unless you don't know that 1,309 miles and an ocean means, "fuck right off" in normal people speak. Because if that's the case let me be absolutely clear this time, fuck. _Off_."

Dick wets his lips. Which means, "I'm about to tell you something that will probably make you freak out and I'm trying to determine how big of a shit show that will be" in Dick body language. "Bruce wants the False Face Society members to be arrested in Gotham."

"Wow," Jason says, because really? Fucking _really_? "Now see, I had this idea in my head that there were certain levels of low that no one could cross if they were human beings. And that is digging below the bar to go even lower."

"Bane has numerous unnamed allies in the Cuban government, those arrested are likely to be let out within the day if we're lucky. Arresting them in Gotham means they'll be facing multiple charges with prior arrest warrants." Dick points to Eduardo. “And Eduardo’s appearance means the Penitente Cartel has some sort of claim here. They wouldn’t just send out their top enforcer to help the False Face Society make a delivery.”

"I find it funny because you're assuming I planned to even have them arrested in the first place." Jason doesn't need to look at Dick to gauge his reaction. He feels it. The same way it feels to climb out from underneath a warm blanket and into the cold morning air. Or the when the wind dies down and all you're left with is the tickling, burning chill that sinks right through the layers of your clothes.

"You are not killing anyone," Dick says and it's in that imitation Bruce voice, the same one he used when he was parading around as Batman for nearly half a year. Now it could have worked on anyone else, but Jason is as old and jaded as they come. It hardly bothers him the same way it tricked the younger bats like Tim and Damian or the stupidest of Gotham's underworld like Polka-dot Man and Firefly. That's not what makes Jason sit up straight and nearly, _nearly_ if it wasn't for the strong cologne Jason keeps in the front of his helmet and around the collar of his jacket that would have him baring his throat. _Goddamn Omega reflexes_.

Jason can see, out of the corner of his eye, how Dick expects it. Head tilted slightly with a huff of breath like he could impose his will on Jason. Dick is, after all, a man. And Jason's had a long track record with men to know that superiority and posturing takes to them like fish to water. The bile in the back of Jason's throat is all the harder to swallow down.

Dick doesn't know Jason's an omega. It's the one secret of his Bruce has still, even after his death and resurrection, kept a secret for all these years. Pumped full of whatever illicit birth control he can find keeps obvious tells, like scent, hidden. Heats from happening. Body armor and padding around his waist to keep the curve of his hips and sway in his walk to a minimum. The fear that someone will find out is always there.

"Seeing I have three guns strapped to my body I think that, yes, it would be correct to assume that me killing someone would be expected yes," Jason says, just to see Dick fume.

"You know the rules-"

"Yes, I know my own rules. This isn't Gotham and Bruce doesn't have any say here. Those guns? These men? They're going to bring a war to the streets. Do you know how many people will die if those guns aren't destroyed? If they're swept in by Bane's corrupt politicians while the government argues over red tape? Dozens and dozens, circus boy. So you can take your morals and stuff it." Jason stands and takes one last look at Dick. "If you don't want to have the blood all over your hands go find a cat in need of rescuing."

He gets about as far as hooking a line to the top of the warehouse when a wingding slices through the taut wire. He falls about a story and without the training he would be looking at a broken arm at best and a busted neck at worse. Jason huffs to himself. Glares at the shadow of Dick, lying in wait in the darkness of the bell tower.

"Alright, pretty boy, guess we’re doing this now."

He has three guns. Only one is live with actual bullets. The other two are filled with incredibly realistic--and terribly painful--dummy ammunition. But Dick doesn't know that and Jason wants to see that son of a bitch sweat. How dare he come after Jason in the middle of an op? Like he's Damian or some other spoiled little brat that needs someone to watch his ass.

Shooting in the middle of a public place, however? Idiot move number one. That will gain the goons' attention faster than the obnoxiously bright Bat-Signal lighting up the ever-gloomy Gotham skyline. Smarter to dart into the alley between the warehouse and wait for wonder boy to give chase. Which he does. Textbook perfect dismount from the roof, all-graceful flips, and spins in the middle of throwing several sharp-edged wingdings at Jason's head. Nice.

"Jason," Dick calls out as Jason ducks behind a nearby dumpster. "We'd get a lot more done working together than against each other."

"You want to wait for an international mafia with a weapons trading ship to return to Gotham before you go after them." Jason spits back. And Bruce thinks Jason gets nothing done. "How is that getting anything done?"

"You know they'd be in prison longer in Gotham."

"If I can root out Bane's men in the Cuban government I think international weapons trading will stick a lot harder than whatever bullshit second-degree charges in Gotham. Where Roman will because he's their boss, foot the bill for the best lawyers money can buy. If you want to have them that much, fine, but Eduardo is fucking mine. Even you can't argue with me."

"I'm not letting you kill Flamingo, Jason. I know he's scum just as much as you, but we do not _kill_."

"I'm not the one wearing the bat brand on my uniform," Jason snarls. "You know what he's done, the people he's killed and how. Don't tell me that he doesn't deserve to die."

"You'd be killing him based on whatever selfish reason you've decided justifies it. It should be left up to the victims and the court system to choose his fate." Which nearly makes Jason laugh because what victims? They're all buried in Gotham's cemetery.

Here's the thing about arguing with a Bat. You can't. End of story. Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars. You either follow their rules or they beat you over the head with asinine logic until you either agree or get so tired that you accept it so they stop. Then they always have the audacity to believe they made you better for it. His immediate thought goes to the boys and the queen from earlier. The bile that rises in his throat is only the second worst taste in his mouth.

Jason reacts partially on a mixture of emotions--white-hot fury and disgust being the loudest--and righteous spite. The throwing knives he aims clang against the brick wall Dick formerly occupied before back-flipping out of the way. _Showboating son of a_ -Jason slides back down behind the dumpster. In comparison to most of the bats, Jason doesn't like making a scene. Oh, he's sure Bruce or Tim or Dick or Barbara would argue to the far-off reaches of the floating pieces of rock that once formerly made up Krypton they don't. Here's the thing though. People don't dress up in a bat costume and fly around the city in their own custom-made assault vehicles without expecting maybe one or two wandering eyes. A symbol his ass, Jason knows that Bruce wanted people to pay attention. Take the elitist prick out of upper-Gotham snobbery, but can't take the upper-Gotham snobbery out of the prick.

However, Jason does know the point of a good distraction. Didn't go two years in Robin red and green without learning the importance of being flashy. Smoke and mirrors. Might be the only way to get the guns destroyed, Bane's plans pushed back, the _Orpheus_ at the bottom of the harbor and Eduardo--preferably--dead as a doornail.

All with an angry Dick Grayson on his heels. _Yeah, must be Tuesday_.

Jason tosses a flashbang at Dick, rolling out of cover as he makes a break for the warehouse backdoor. It won't hold him for long. Only the second it takes to dodge or less if Dick saw him ready it. The door to the interior of the warehouse is only a few steps ahead. No time for the smooth and silent approach. Jason kicks open the door and rushes inside.

Immediately, he grabs the nearest moveable object, which in this case is a wooden shipping crate half filled with guns. Shoves it against the door and turns around. There is a team of disguised False Facers already pulling their guns from inside hidden holsters. Jason's always found it hilarious how badly movies portray shoot-outs. Stormtroopers, any of the men chasing Jason Bourne, Indiana Jones Nazis, they're all terrible shots. Now, False Face gangsters aren't great shots either. You'd think Roman would invest in something that would help taking over Gotham city or at least protecting his dumb ass in the middle of a turf war. Then again Roman's in prison and Jason isn't so. Look who's coming out on top.

Only, the False Face chumps have a little ace up their sleeve stormtroopers don't. It's called bullet ricochet and that is a total, grade A bitch to deal with. The metal ring of bullets popping off the warehouse wall behind Jason has him diving behind the next load of shipping crates. Which is ironic, they'd think that would save him, but smarts aren't a dime a dozen in Gotham and the goons keep shooting. Which suddenly makes half of the warehouse a viable fire hazard.

Couldn't you hire some decent help for once, Roman?

"There are seven guys on your six," Dick says in his ear. Still grumpy, but more or less begrudgingly setting aside his annoyance in favor of keeping Jason's ass without an extra hole or two.

"I'm well aware," Jason glances towards the entrance facing the dock. Sees the rest of Roman's men unloading the _Orpheus_ drop the last container and start running towards the warehouse. Eduardo waves at him. "Kind of pinned right now."

"Do you always do things without thinking about consequences?"

"Did you come to that conclusion before or after I died? Because I think there was plenty evidence before I charged into the middle of a warehouse full of Roman's men." The wood above his head splinters apart with a pop. Thank god for near noise canceling helmets, Jason would have a bad case of tinnitus by now. "Do you always hack into people's private communication lines without their permission?"

"You could have waited to formulate a plan."

"You mean I could have waited until it was too late to do anything besides follow your plan. Not in the cards, boy wonder."

Jason wishes he could see Dick's face with the indignant squawk over the comm. Dick will take care of the men racing up the dock, that much he's sure. Which leaves the bozos shooting at him while hiding behind shipping crates, full of ammunition. Jesus Christ, Roman where do you find the help?

It's almost too easy to dispatch them. It's practice at this point. One flash grenade goes up, there are a few screams as it explodes and leaves them stumbling around as they shoot off in different directions. Wherever they think Jason will bolt. Most of them land in the roof, obviously too used to dealing with Bats hiding in rafters so Jason stays low.

Takes them out one by one at their feet. Knocks one man into another. Dismantles a crappy handgun when he disarms the next man. Uses the butt of that gun to throw at full rotation into the face of another. When the majority are on the ground drooling, only then does Jason stop and look around at the chaos at his feet. He did not bring enough rope for this.

He can hear the sound of gunfire a few feet away. "Clear in here, Grayson, keep up."

"Jason, there's been a call to the police station. They'll be here in five minutes." Dick says. Then adds. "Eduardo is making a move for the street."

"That's what I'm counting on Dick-"

Oh, hello there massive hand.

Bane's early, because of course, he is. Thank you, Deus Ex Machina, or whatever cosmic entity that's in charge of fucking up the pathetic remains of Jason's life. Like Loki or some other conniving and cruel God. Bane throws him clear across the warehouse and through one of the shipping crates. Another thing they don't show you in the movies. Plywood is practically concrete. It's extremely hard to break even with the right amount of force. The Superman of wood. Which is what the shipping crate does, before it buckles under Jason's back and leaves him gasping for air in a shower of packing peanuts and wood chips.

"I should have expected you," Bane says, somewhere in the warehouse. Sounds a little too far away but that could be the pain muffling everything in a haze of red. Ouch. "I was hoping your master would come himself, not send his children after me."

"Your definition of children is pretty screwed up, Bane, for one I can drink now," Jason rolls out of the mess. There's a steady, painful pulsing in his lower back and a sharp ache that radiates from his left ankle. No running for him, he can only hope Dick goes for Eduardo before he finds that trashy motorcycle of his and books it. When it comes to which villain he'd rather have roaming the streets he'll take Bane over pink Hannibal Lecter any day.

"Is that Bane?" Dick says while Bane practically coos at him. "I wonder if your spine breaks as easily as your master's."

"Yeah," Jason says as an answer to both. "Not exactly how I planned to spend my evening."

Dick's swearing over the line in a way that would make a Mormon Youth Minister proud, lots of "dang its" and "craps." Is crap considered a swear word still? It's as basic as Hell at this point but with less of the whole religious afflation that makes Hell a bad word. Shit, what was he doing again? Avoiding Bane and something with guns. He must have hit the ground a lot harder than he thought.

"Don't let Eduardo go," Jason says. "You wanted to do something there you go. Not a cat, but saving faces is practically the same." Is it the same? He'll have to set up an opinion poll on that.

"Jason, get out of there now." No can do, Dick

Bane isn't charging him, letting Jason pick himself up out of the crate in a gentleman-kind of way. Alfred would be proud that even as horribly murderous and huge as Bane is, he still has manners. Peña Duro’s etiquette classes were second to none. "Maybe I will send him your tongue as a gift. You would be much more pleasant without it."

"You are hardly the first guy to threaten me with de-tonguement." Dis-entongument? Untongument? Shit, this is getting more confusing. He'll have to ask Dick for some pointers.

"You speak as if others should listen. It is the least I can do," Bane cracks his knuckles. Jason wobbles on his feet and finds that he still has at least two of his guns, one with the dummy ammo and the other with live, still attached to his being. The third is lost in a sea of illegally gotten machine guns that spills from the crate and onto the floor. Packed together like sardines in a can.

Jason shrugs. Can take the kid out of the Robin suit, but not the wisecracking jokes out of the boy. "Bad habit."

"Then allow me to aid you in unlearning it," Bane's done waiting around. Charges him with the footsteps of a rolling thunderstorm, trembling along the ground up into the soles of Jason's feet. He can only hope that Dick is busy hogtying or making sure Eduardo is down for the count. Ducking away from Bane's fist takes a lot more energy with a head injury. The roll aggravates his already aching back and Jason fumbles keeping a hold on both guns.

"Right," Jason holsters the live handgun. "Going to have to say no thank you.”

The obvious target is the tubes of venom coiling around his head. Classic taking down Bane tactic number one. The only problem is this equipment doesn’t look as flimsy which means Jason needs to be real close to slice through them or disable the actual pack. At least Jason can run while he figures out a plan.

Bane descends on him with the power of a storm front. Jason pops off two shots that hit Bane in the massive, bulging muscle of his bicep before a fist slams into his stomach. Goodbye breath. Jason is only partially able to execute a roll, and it’s all the harder to get up. It’s like moving through water, complete with the inability to breathe without pain. A meaty hand wraps around his ankle and tosses him across the warehouse again. It is only luck that Jason can wrench his grappling hook free and wrap it around the metal support beams at the roof of the warehouse.

“I could use a little help,” Jason groans.

“Hang on, Jay.”

Bane glares up at him, a child beneath an overstuffed piñata trying to find the easiest way to bring it down. Not in the cards, staying alive and out of Bane’s hands is right above keeping away from the Joker by any means necessary on the list of priorities. Right after that is never playing chess with Ra’s. Running along the supporting beams is a lot like running on a tightrope. Tiny, extremely wobbly and barely strong enough to support Jason’s massive 6’2 two hundred pound plus frame. He pops off a few more shots at Bane which bounce harmlessly off his chest like Jason was pelting him with beanie babies.

Bane, thoroughly unamused and unimpressed, grabs one of the shipping crates. Hoists it above his head and throws it with the accuracy of a javelin. Jason dives off the beam and onto the nearby shelf as wood planks and guns rain down above him. The fall knocks the gun out of Jason’s hand. Doesn’t even bother going for it, barely has enough time to dodge the oil barrel by leaping off the shelf.

Jason’s vision is blinded by a cascading wave of black liquid. Tears off the red mask and moves out of the steadily growing puddle of harsh smelling liquid. _That doesn’t smell like gasoline_.

Blue and black. Bane’s masked muffled snarl echoes through the warehouse as he rips the thrown wingding from his shoulder. Dick breaks from his run into a slide beneath Bane’s spread feet, wingding in hand and slices up across one of the exposed venom tubes.

“I thought you had it under control,” Dick dances out of the way of Bane’s retaliation. Effortless grace. Gravity, no effect on supers, birds and Dick Grayson.

“I did,” Jason glances around for the dropped gun. Needle in a haystack with the number of rifles spilled across the warehouse. Live ammunition, last resort maybe, at least it wouldn’t do too much damage with Bane. “Where’s Eduardo?”

“Escaped, there’s an alert for his motorcycle and he’s wanted in Cuba already. He won’t stay free for long.”

Not good. He says as much. Dick sighs. “If you just waited this wouldn’t have been an issue.”

“I can think of three reasons why I couldn’t do that. One being, I told you to fuck off and you insisting to do thing’s Batman’s way.” And the whole letting Eduardo get away. For those keeping score that’s three reasons. Jason could probably list a thousand more starting with, he doesn’t like to be told what to do by a man who thinks he knows better than him. Better than an omega like him.

The wailing sound of police sirens grows louder and Bane, without one of the tubes supplying him venom is still as unstoppable as a coked-out bear. Dick is wearing him out. Flipping and jumping around him, only a hair’s length out of reach before ducking close enough to get in another hit. It’s beautiful, Jason admits, watching him work. Something he always admired when he was a Robin watching Nightwing. The grace under pressure and the way Dick had the utmost control of his body that it made bending and curving and performing seem as natural as breathing. Matching that standard had been impossible. It had burned Jason alive from the inside with vicious green envy even before he found out the differences between their bodies.

Something that Jason would never hope to match no matter how hard he trained. Always second best.

Dick has Bane’s full attention, Eduardo is gone, and the rest of the False Facers are in drooling heaps on the floor. The _Orpheus_ lies unprotected in the harbor, which means it’s time for a little gift for Roman and no escape route. Jason has three explosive charges, more than enough to damage the hull and engine to sink or make it impossible to leave without extensive repairs.

“Keep Bane, busy, I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going?” Dick hardly sounds winded. The world is so terribly cruel.

“Running an errand, I’ll be there to watch you finish Bane off if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Hood-” Dick starts and Jason switches off the comm line. Some peace and quiet for a moment at least.

The dock is empty, tourists and workers having fled the moment they sound the pop-pop-pop of gunfire, which serves Jason well enough. It leaves the path to the small boat clear, save for the several grumbling bola-wrapped up bodies Dick left behind. Good. Nobody to worry about being on the boat.

 _Bang_.

Jason’s been shot in the back once before. Both times protected by a strong layer of Kevlar. That’s where the good news ends. Being shot hurts. The impact spider webbing out along the veins and muscles of his back like he’s been injected with liquid pain. It made walking difficult for a week after because of the internal damage and the swelling around the vertebrae of his spine. It’s one of the worst types of pain he’s ever experienced. The first is blunt force trauma with a crowbar.

Then being blown up.

He collapses against the sleek wood paneling on the stern of the _Orpheus_. Fire, throbbing up his back and down his shaking legs. There’s a laugh, high and delighted. Eduardo is stepping out behind the shadows of one of the dock forklifts, red Magnum revolver spinning around his finger.

“He said you would come, but I did not believe it.”

“Flamingo,” Jason clenches his teeth and shifts onto his back with a light laugh. “I thought you were too busy trying to run away.”

“I did not want to leave without seeing you again, cariño,” Eduardo coos. _Cariño?_ The once over he gives Jason is disgustingly lecherous. “I heard an interesting rumor and I was hoping to confirm before I completed what was asked of me.”

Jason swallows past the thick lump in his throat. “Don’t believe everything you hear on the internet.”

Eduardo tilts his head and walks towards the _Orpheus_ , spinning the revolver. “You are better. I was worried about you after we last met.”

“You worried about me? What is the world coming to,” Jason slowly curls his fingers. Always keep a knife in your jacket sleeve, boys and girls. You never know when a cannibal mob enforcer is going to get the jump on you.

Eduardo kneels beside him. Reaches out and runs a gloved finger around the ear his bullet took a chunk out of long ago. “I did not believe him when he told me. But his argument was very convincing, I just have to see for myself now.

“Threats tend to work more when you don’t ambiguously mention someone. Give me a name and I’ll tell you outright.”

Eduardo laughs and drops his hand. Then fingers along the curve of his chest, down the middle of his stomach before coming to a half on the loop of his belt. “Eres un omega.”

Once, when Jason was very young he fell through the ice in Gotham harbor. He had been playing with a boy, no older than him by only a week. Days of heavy snowfall with nothing to do but curl up and watch the winter Olympics with the limp body of his mother, Jason had become fascinated with hockey. When the snow stopped and he could go outside again without risking getting lost in large snow drifts he searched the park for sticks and a rock to play. The ice, however, had other plans. No more than two minutes into their games the ice cracked and Jason slipped into the water. Had it not been for the neighborhood boy Jason would have frozen to death or drowned. A nameless body to be found eaten away by sea life in the summer when he washed ashore. No one coming forward to claim him.

The chill of the ice had left him breathless. Devoid of thought and motion from the sheer shock of it all. It was almost as if the water had soaked through his skin as easily it had done to his shirt and pants. Because hours later, even in the warmth of his home underneath dozens on ratty blankets he still felt cold down to his bones.

That does not compare to the biting terror that sinks into his stomach.

Eduardo drops his hand onto his crotch. Groping lightly as if he could tell past the protective cup beneath. He smiles. “Is it true then? The Red Hood is an omega? Let me see, I need to be sure before I kill you.”

It’s only when Eduardo curses and starts running away does Jason realize that one, there is a gun in his hand and two, there is a gun in his hand with live ammunition in it. That doesn’t deter Jason. Drowning in an all-consuming fear with the single repetitious thought in his mind that shrieks _he knows_.

Jason shoots twice with devastatingly perfect accuracy. The first gets Eduardo in the hand, sending the red revolver flying while the other goes through his gut. Eduardo, out of nothing but pure adrenaline, drops then hobbles, quickly past the warehouse he’d been watching over and into the refueling station nearby. Jason doesn’t hesitate.

Standing up and descending on Eduardo with the cataclysmic power of a tornado. Whatever Eduardo sees reflected in Jason’s face makes him run. Fleeing as fast as he can, white terror evident on the sweating panes of his face. Jason hears nothing over the sound of blood thumping in his ears.

Eduardo ducks behind a large tanker of gasoline, bright red warnings painted on the side. Jason shoots at his feet and listens to him yell and swear and curse. He doesn’t miss him because he’s a bad shot. Jason likes watching Eduardo squirm and approaches him like a cat sneaking up on an unsuspecting lizard. Vindictive hunger for his blood on the heat of his lips.

“Hood!” Jason ducks to the side as a wingding slices through the air.

Dick is running out of the warehouse. Shock, concern, but most importantly anger on his face. It pales in comparison to the growing heat in his body. Jason is furious. That Dick is still there; the Cuban police are on their heels and Eduardo is mouthing off. Eduardo who knows he is an omega. That-

He-

This can’t be happening. _This can’t be happening._

Jason can’t let Dick know. No one can know what he is. The effects that knowledge would have on his life, on everything he is would be disastrous to the continuation of his life as a vigilante. If anyone found out he’d rather be dead. He needs to know how Eduardo found out. Needs to clean up the trail that he left.

It takes only a second for Jason to unclip one of the explosives from his belt he’d planned to use on the _Orpheus_ and throw it at Dick. Easy to avoid but enough for a distraction. When it's halfway across the distance Jason detonates it with a thundering boom that sends Dick flying back into open door of the warehouse. Enough of a distraction for him to slide under the tanker where Eduardo has taken cover.

“How do you know,” Jason says. Voice calmer than the quaking fear that nearly consumes him from the inside out. “How do you know!”

“So it is true,” Eduardo marvels and then he laughs. A bright and happy laugh.

“Tell me who told you,” Jason grabs him by the collar. Hoists his limp body off the concrete and shakes him. “Tell me who told you and I will give you the mercy of a quick death.”

Eduardo laughs and Jason punches him across the mouth. Blood splatters across the side of the white tanker from the newly split lip.

“Is it not funny to you?” Eduardo smiles, blood streaking across white teeth. “It is funny to me.”

“It won’t be when your arm is nearly detached from your shoulder,” Jason throws him to the ground.

“That does not matter. Nothing does, anymore. I have done what was asked of me. I wonder how they will react, your family when they realize what your mentor kept from them.” Eduardo wheezes and then laughs again before falling into a fit of wet coughing. “I wonder, if you survive this, how they will blame you for it.”

Jason snarls and stomps down on his chest. “Who told you. Tell me!”

“Un pajarito,” Eduardo coos and lifts a hand up. Inside of it is a button. “Que sueñes con los angelitos, cariño.”

He presses down with his thumb and the world is engulfed in fire.


	2. Judas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the comments, I hope that this story will continue to entertain you.
> 
> Un'betaed, apologies in advance for spelling/grammar mistakes. I am the queen of them.
> 
> EDIT: Don't edit/write in a rush before bed kiddos because you forget important lines like Bruce defending Jason.

_Twenty- Four hours earlier._

"Why are you going all the way to Cuba to bring back, Todd?"

Dick can think of three immediate answers, all of which explain nothing save for his exasperation at going all the way down to the Caribbean to drag Bruce's wayward ex-Robin home. Two of them possess an extortionate amount of cursing and that just wouldn't do for Damian to hear. Assassin upbringing or not, Dick was not about to pollute the mind of an eleven-year-old with a Romani word for pig fornicator. 

So he turns to Damian, faux-bright smile on his face. "Because Ohana means family, and family means-"

"Do not quote American animated movies at me, Grayson. I am serious."

 _Oh Dami, you little pain in the ass you_. "Bruce's got his hands full and I'd rather not bother him with something I can take care of myself." Dick steps away from the edge of the building.

It's a hot mid-summer night turned early morning. Neon bright lights illuminate the thick smog that thickens with the rolling in marine layer, casting a haunting, yet lovely glow over the Gotham skyline. Damian is sitting down on the ledge beside him, legs tucked up against his chest and hood pulled tight over his little head. He looks even smaller like this and Dick wonders if Bruce felt the same protective urge that comes with children, terribly young and fragilely small, beside him. Dick's starting to rethink the whole putting car seats in the Batmobile idea.

The Gotham Clocktower tolls two AM in the distance, freshly devoid of Oracle one neurological implant later. Barbara's out on the streets with Dinah and Helena and Dick tries not to miss the warm quips in his ear. _Slow night, isn't it, boy wonder?_

Damian clicks his tongue. "You said that last time and father nearly castrated you for throwing Todd in Blackgate."

Right. Dick's eardrums still ring from the screaming match. Bruce had been furious and Dick, in his opinion, rightly frustrated that Bruce could be so hypocritical. That he would see all that Jason had done while he was "dead" and twist it around so that it was Dick who "hadn't been the one thinking about consequences." Yeah, right. Arguing with Bruce was the equivalent of telling a wall to turn into a marble statue of someone highly detailed Greek God--with extra attention given to the junk. Completely, and hilariously, impossible.

"I could go with you, then he would have to yell at both of us," Damian grins at him. Which is such a dirty thing to do and Dick can't help but smile genuinely back. Bruce liked yelling at Damian about as much as he liked Alfred telling him to ease up on orphan adoption.  _Just one more, Mom, please._

"It's a school night, buddy." Damian rolls his eyes. Dick would give anything for a school night now if only to sleep in for just an hour longer. "You're going to have to sit this one out."

Damian frowns and rests his chin against the bony curve of his knees. Beneath them Gotham is as quiet as ever, the magic hours between one to four am where even the most hyped up mooks are tucked in their beds. Visions of robberies, clean-cut crystal, and laced up thighs dancing in their heads. It's easy to fall in love with Gotham as smelly and disgusting as it is. When there's silence and nothing but the wet glow of electric lights it's almost serene. Can take the boy out of the circus but not the love for the spotlight out of the boy.

"I think father prefers Todd over me."

That catches Dick off guard more effectively than if Damian were to shove him off the ledge. He immediately says, "Bruce doesn't prefer Jason to you, Damian." Which might come off a little fake, but it's hard not to be rendered speechless. Bruce preferring anyone to Damian. That's like saying penguins finally learned to fly. Sorry, Oz, that's never going to happen.

"He has a picture of Todd on his nightstand," Damian huffs. "Nothing of me."

"He has pictures of you, Dami."

"None that he has beside his bed."

"That was from years ago," Dick remembers when the picture of Jason appeared. His eighth-grade school photo from Gotham Academy eighth grade, a few days after Dick had moved back in after the funeral. It remained there even after Jason's resurrection and subsequent falling out. Bruce had multiple photos of the family from holidays, snaps taken in secret around the house, and the occasional family portrait. None of them, however, joined Jason's photo on the nightstand. Combine that with Bruce's apparent willingness to let Jason continue his crusade against crime--while hammering Damian who was still forgetting everything his grandfather and mother taught him (and, more importantly, _eleven)_ \--it was hard not to believe that Bruce favored Jason over anyone else in the family.

Dick remembers getting along with Jason only barely.

The ill-fated gauntlet, rescuing a disguised Alfred while Bruce lay unconscious in Leslie's care, and the anger that had tarnished his relationship at the idea he could be replaced so easily.

Remembers nearly killing the Joker once he found out what happened to the boy he'd never attempted to know. The raw guilt that ate at him for years after his death. The wonder and hope at Jason's return that eventually gave way to bitter resentment and aggravation. That Jason would kill. That he would see all the injustice in the world traveling around with Talia's merry band of murderers and think that by slaughtering them as easily as a butcher does a pig would make him better. Would make the world  _nicer._

Bruce had always, _always_ , been softer on Jason. Bratty, yet-well meaning child or dangerous adult changed nothing. Dick knows that Bruce loves his entire family down to the emotionally stunted depths of his dark and damaged soul. Dick _knows_ that. But it's hard. Hard to realize that to Bruce, Jason has always been his greatest weakness. Allowing him to run amok in Gotham, betraying everything they stand for, is a mockery and an insult to the work they did. Dick shouldn't be surprised; Jason never received any serious reprimands from Bruce. He'd never been fired.

But Dick had never died either. "You know how much he likes reminding himself of how badly he failed."

Damian tsks. "Father tends to obsess."

"And that's why I'm having both Waynes, sit on the sidelines for this, alright?" Dick ruffles his hair. "I'll be back before Bruce even knows it."

"He will know the second you walk in tonight, Grayson." Damian rolls his eyes.

"Have a little faith in me, buddy."

Bruce, as predicted, is waiting in the cave for the both of them when they finally roll in a little past four am.

"You shouldn't go to Havana," Bruce says in lieu of a greeting. Another thing Bruce never seemed to learn, that usually, a hello preceded a conversation.

"I told you," Damian smirks and skips off to go feed one of his millions of animals.

"This isn't a good idea," Bruce repeats.

"We both know that letting Jason operate on his own is bound to come back to us eventually. Whether he agrees, it's public opinion that Jason is as important to you as Selina is." Bruce grimaces. He gets it, he does, kinda weird to compare the woman he’s been having sex on and off with for years to the street rat he quite literally pulled out of the gutter. Love and war, right? "It'd make more sense if he stayed in Gotham with all of us. We'd be able to keep an eye on him and he'd be able to do, whatever he wants to do now."

“He won’t want to come back.”

“Which is why I was planning on batting my eyelashes and promising him a pony,” Bruce frown morphs, a subtle deeper downturn of his lips and he’s gone straight into full Batman-disapproval. “Two ponies.”

“Dick.” Should have gone with the three ponies. Yup, his bad.

“You know I’m right, Bruce. Either we bring him back here on his own free will or someone else locks him up and throws away the key.” Dick doesn’t like playing into Bruce’s obvious bias to get permission to do what Bruce himself should be doing. But it’s the best chance he’s got to go to Cuba without Bruce calling in some favor with the TSA to get him grounded. Not that Dick doesn’t have a method around that. Its name is Freddie Dinardo.

Instead, Bruce glares at him, then he sighs and turns back to the main computer.

"I doubt you'll be able to bring him back, but if you're hell-bent on going to Havana then you can at least help him try to make the right choice." Bruce opens a file on screen, a picture of a small boat no bigger than a medium-sized yacht appears. White, pristine, with a few men in tell-tale black, leather masks crowding on its stern. Its name is _Orpheus_. Roman Sionis. "The False Face Society left Gotham harbor about three days ago. They stopped in Miami at 5:05 pm today and confirmed with the Coast Guard they were making their way to Cuba."

Water is wet. "What's in Cuba?"

Bruce visibly stiffens. "Bane."

* * *

Dick should have kept a better eye on Eduardo.

Never thought a man with pink hair, a bright, fuschia traje de luces, and a magenta motorcycle could slip away in broad daylight. But Dick was busy juggling a group of armed False Facers, gawking tourists, and one very impulsive and impatient Red Hood. Bane could have slipped by him. Which is ironic because he effectively did, catching Jason unaware in the warehouse by how loud the clattering boom was to Dick outside.

“Is that Bane?” Dick was on top of the last man, choking him out with the meat of his thighs. Roy, in one of their few “I have a bottle of alcohol and some leftover adrenaline from nearly dying in outer-space let’s just fuck it out” moments, told Dick that asphyxiating between his thighs would be the best way a man could exit the world. Doubts the gangster currently struggling to remain on his knees beating at his legs concurs.

“Yeah,” Jason breathes over the comm. “Not exactly how I wanted to spend my evening.”

Dick should have pulled out then. Grabbed Jason by the collar of his shirt and waited for the police to clean up before they came back to analyze the scene later. They could have kept it together for a few days, just long enough to successfully remove the puppets Bane had placed in power and interrogate Eduardo to find out why the Penitente Cartel had an interest in working together with Roman Sionis. Instead, Dick gets wrapped up fighting Bane, which is always a pain and a half because keeping out of Bane’s hands is about as easy as skydiving into a pool the size of a needle eye. Nearly impossible. He doesn’t even manage to take about Bane before there are two cracks of gunfire.

10mm, Jason’s go-to.

He turns around to see Eduardo, bloodied and limping past the warehouse to the nearby refueling station. Jason, face dark, descends on him like a wrathful god. Should’ve gone after Eduardo first. Jason’s history with Eduardo contained a bullet to his knee, one to his ear and another to his skull. Jason already got Eduardo back in the knee, only an idiot wouldn’t know where the next two were going to go. He had only a moment to stop him.

“Hood!” Dick shouts, sprinting towards him. _Please don’t shoot me in the skull, Jay_.

Jason lobes a mini-bomb of C-4 his way and detonates it in mid-air. Totally unprepared Dick goes flying. Hitting the ground after being nearly blown to hell is an experience. The pain almost hurts as badly as the fact that Jason tried to _blow him up_ to stop him from getting in the way. Just how far gone is Jason now? They'd fought a lot sure. Being thrown into a cell in Blackgate didn't help anything, but throwing a bomb at him? Dick forces himself to swallow past the tight lump in his throat. A dark, monstrous shadow falls across his body.

“Did you think you could run from me?” Bane grabs his foot and throws him deeper into the warehouse. “Face me directly and fight.” 

That doesn't happen. The back of the warehouse explodes into a literal fireball with little to any warning. The only thing that crosses Dick’s mind before the roof falls on top of him is, _at least I don’t have to arm wrestle Bane_.

* * *

Awareness comes to Jason in small flashes.

First, there is heat and pain racing along the back of his spine that sends him catapulting through the air and into the ground, or wall. Doesn't know what, considering the world is nothing but a muted pale orange. The impact makes him lose his breath and consciousness. Then there is a haze of gray, the loud, steady ringing from the explosion still beating in his ear. His body is numb, unable to feel anything aside from the heaviness of his eyelids. He blinks once. Twice and then loses the energy and the will to keep them open.

He’s been blown up before. But last time he was dead and if he were to choose between the two he’d rather be dead. At least then he wouldn't have to deal with the realization that things might have gone the tiniest bit sideways.

When Jason wakes for the third and final time he is covered in ash with the smell of burned wood and gasoline-but-not-gasoline in his nose. Something warm dribbles onto his forehead from an overhanging piece of concrete. His body, he doesn't even want to think about it. Pain is too simple a word for the excruciating agony that consumes every fiber of every nerve on _every_ intake of breath. _Ouch_. Something is pressing down hard against his legs and waist. Face delightfully bare to the drip-drip-drip of what-might-or-might-not-be gasoline running down the scraps on his forehead.

Jason glances up.

 _Oh_. Not gasoline. Jason's never seen a flamingo shish kebab before.

He turns his head barely a fraction to the side and violently wretches the remains of whatever food he had from that afternoon. Or is it yesterday? Time flies when you're knocked unconscious.

Throwing up hurts more than breathing and the throbbing ache is enough to turn his stomach so violently he has to weigh vomiting again versus the resulting pain. Forces it down and focuses it on the slow, meditative breathing techniques his Betawi silat instructor always had him practice. Neigong. Can still hear Miang's chiding voice in his ear. _No use angry, breathe then strike. You will hit your target better when you are in control._

Then he'd attack Jason with a golok while he tried to breathe. Fucker. Most of his League appointed instructors were bastards.

Breathes in through his nose. Hold. Out through his mouth. Would help if he could move through the stances too, but beggars can't be choosers. It takes several long minutes, but eventually, Jason subdues the nausea well enough to take inventory of his surroundings and the extent of his injuries. Which is, well, more bad news all around.

First, his right arm is fucked. Twisted metal support beams ripped free from concrete have pierced through the weak points of his armor and into the flesh of his forearm. The rest of the slab rests firmly on top of his hips, pinning him to the rubble. Aside from those two immediate concerns, nothing seems to be broken or life-threatening. But, it'd be safer to find some run-down mob run clinic to check for internal damage. Been blown up enough to know a thing or two after all.

"Mierda, fíjate."

Voices, distant over the ringing tinnitus, wander towards where Jason's stuck. Good and bad news. Good because Jason will be getting out of this pile of concrete where he can finally breathe. Bad because Jason remembers the sirens, which means the paramedics or the police are picking over the scene. Attention for someone like Jason is rarely good. He's lucky that his mask and helmet have been blown off along with any weapons on him. With his jacket and destroyed clothes, he may be able to pass himself off as an unlucky tourist.

"Muerto. Dónde...los paramédicos son..quién será evacudo?"

"El pequeño."

Jason catches a few words he recognizes, dead, paramedics, evacuation, but the rest is lost. Mumbled together like radio static as Jason tries to swallow enough spit to get his dry mouth wet enough to start yelling.

"Ayúdeme," Jason croaks. "Ayúdeme por favor."

It takes a second but there's the light shifting of rocks and a face, a young man wearing the Cuban police gray peers down at him.

"Martín, aquí! Hay un joven aquí." The officer calls out behind him.

"Inglés," he can speak Spanish just fine, but people tend to admit more with the perceived barrier of language ignorance. Human nature to underestimate people you think are dumber than you. "Inglés."

"Okay," the officer says. "Stay there, do not move."

Which is just fine, because his concussion takes that moment to remind him that he's still got one and passes out amongst the stones.

* * *

Pain does not drag him from his sleep. As far as Jason's concerned he woke up underneath Flamingo's impaled body, getting showered in warm blood blinked and was suddenly lying on a stretcher with a woman and man in medical blue cutting open the front of Jason's Kevlar. The ache is still there, his right arm feels like total crap, tightly bound in white, medical gauze but the fuzzy tinged blurriness around his eyes means they've probably got him doped up on enough morphine to get an elephant high. Which would be great, under other circumstances.

The paramedic starts ripping open the torn fabric of his pant leg. This is why Jason avoids hospitals. The naked requirement kind of puts a damper on the treatment thing.

Jason responds to the pant tearing by lifting his unrestrained leg and kicking the paramedic full in the jaw. Then, because that response usually ends with a sedative and a restraint belt, tears the tubes from his elbows and attacks the other paramedic with a weak, but still painful, punch. Whatever amount of morphine that's already in his system will half to do. The moment they find out he's an omega, well, he doesn't want to think about that. The two go sprawling against the back of the ambulance. Jason unclips the brace around his neck and swings his legs over the side.

The male paramedic is back on his feet, hands open. "Easy, easy."

Jason doesn't need to see the other paramedic rallying behind him. Can feel the way the air tenses as she reaches carefully forward to grab something from one of the cabinets. He takes her out first. Kicks back with a barefoot--where in the world did his boots go--right in the middle of her gut. Sends her crashing past the seats into the dashboard. Ducks out of the way of the other paramedic when he tries to wrap Jason up in his arms and headbutts him in the chin. He's steadier on his feet and wobbles but remains upright after Jason's attack. He can work with that. Knifehands him in the solar plexus and then steps to the side when he falls to the floor dry heaving.

"Alto, alto!" The woman says and the ambulance screeches to a halt. Jason darts to the back of the van and pries open the ambulance doors. "Do not-!"

Jason runs right into bright Kryptonian blue.

Clark, _Superman_ , grabs him by the arms. Concern and something that looks particularly like disappointment on his face. Oh boy, he's in trouble. There is little hope in escaping that grasp, especially weak as he is. Jason goes limp, fatigue sapping away the ounce of adrenaline he'd planned to use to make his escape.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Jason tries.

"Did you punch a paramedic?" Clark says.

 _Fuck me_.

* * *

They take him to the Hospital Hermanos Ameijeiras, sedated on more than enough Midazolam Jason will--and did--end up forgetting the ride the hospital and the examination after that. Clark helps them pin him back to the stretcher, shaking his head and mumbling, "Bruce is on his way," like it was supposed to be comforting. As if Jason could tell him that of all the people he'd rather see in his medical room he'd take Luthor's smug, bald-head over his once-adopted father. Couldn't very well ask for a knife to sleep with, especially with the way they locked his arms to the side of the stretcher bed with padded cuffs. Jason wasn't going anywhere for a long while.

By the time his memories actually start to stick rather than slipping in one ear and out the other, he's in a room. Pale green paint coats the walls and the floor. An old, box television is secured to the ceiling on a local news channel covering the weekly weather. High nineties for the rest of the week with bright, cloudless blue skies. Perfect beach weather. Sunlight and a cool wind filters in through the open window, brushing the white, lace curtains to and fro. Pots of flowers, adorned with the phrases _Que te sientas mejor pronto_ on the front of bright cards stuffed between the petals. The bed is about as comfortable as a hospital bed can get, which in comparison to the mats of garbage Jason spent the last month sleeping on, is honest to god heavenly. Pair that with the morphine drip they've got in the crook of his elbow Jason's ready to let sleep take him for the third time.

That is, of course, until he sees the stock-still form of Bruce, dark Armani suit with a sea-green tie tucked into the crisp lines of his jacket. He's exhausted, that much is clear from the deep-set bags under his eyes and the grim line of his mouth. Tucked up against the wall Jason imagines that he must have spent hours, if not the night, curled up in the corner of the room watching Jason sleep. Years ago, Jason might have felt something as pathetic as comfort, seeing Bruce there. Now it only makes him curl up tighter--as much as he can, restrained as he is--until the restraints on his arms and legs stop him.

"I'd say hello," Jason starts because if he left it up to Bruce they'd never talk. "But I think we've probably already spoken to each other since you're arrival."

Bruce's gaze hardens every so slightly. The words hang heavily in the air as he carefully picks apart his following retort. If it weren't for the painkillers Jason would be a lot angrier than he currently is right now.

"Jason."

"Bruce," Jason says. "I assume Clark told you where I'd be?"

"Clark came at my request after what happened. I wanted to make sure you were alright and Superman doesn't need a reason to appear during emergencies." Bruce is quiet. "But yes he told me what hospital they had taken you to. Room number too."

"You mean you wanted to check on Dick and I just happened to be in the same area. Two birds one stone." Bruce stiffens in his chair. Jason tilts his head. "Where is the boy wonder anyway?"

"Gotham Medical," Bruce looks down at his hands. "The last forty-eight hours have been hard for all of us."

"I assume so, having to run down to Cuba and ignore a government travel ban in order to see me. What will the papers say?" Bruce looks up at him, so tired in the deep-set wrinkles of his face that Jason is on the verge of apologizing before he bites his tongue. "I imagine they've been trying to interview you all morning."

"Yes, but the return of my presumed dead son from a human-trafficking ring would do that, wouldn't it?" Bruce looks up at him. “Or finally being released from a mental hospital in Liechtenstein. I haven’t been able to keep up with all of the conspiracy theories yet.”

Forget his heart, Jason's entire circulatory system stops. "Excuse me?"

Bruce gets up and takes the remote from the hospital nightstand and starts flipping through channels. Blazing across children cartoons, infomercials, spaghetti western re-runs, until he lands on a news channel from Miami.

"Clean-up continues in Havana, Cuba today after an explosion on Wednesday ripped through a storage warehouse in San Pedro. No official cause has been listed yet, but law enforcement says there might have been poorly contained toxic chemicals that ignited the blast. Rescue crews are still searching through the debris for any survivors," the anchor stops. The newscast cuts to an overhead view of the scene. The warehouse, or what is left of the warehouse, is merely a heap of busted up bricks and the metal sheets of the roof, blackened with soot. The blast, from what Jason can tell, must have happened somewhere near the back of the warehouse, not the refueling station where Jason and Eduardo were. Bastard must have planted the bombs while Roman’s men were unloading the weapons crates.

"There were chemical burns on your jacket and Kevlar," Bruce says. "Petroleum ether."

Jason remembers the wash of dark liquid down the front of his helmet. _That doesn't smell like gasoline_. "They were bringing in barrels full of the stuff. I thought it was gasoline or crude oil at first."

Bruce tends to go silent when he thinks. His posture eases slightly, more comfortable unraveling the threads of a mystery than genuine, human conversation. Jason leans back against the pillows, looking at the burned remains of the warehouse. They _wanted_ it to burn down. Why? What could the False Face Society and the Penitente Cartel stand to gain from taking out Bane? _I wonder, if you survive this, how they will blame you for it_. "Roman was arming Bane’s revolutionaries by bringing in unmarked rifles from Qurac through Gotham to Cuba. I’m sure you already know that though. Flamingo was there."

"Eduardo is dead," Bruce stands up from the chair and even that looks painful.

"I saw," Jason glances back at the television. Ten confirmed dead and thirty-two injured. A plan to take out the competition, maybe, but Eduardo's knowledge of his status...Jason presses his head harder against the pillow and tries to think past the numbing fog in the forefront of his mind. They expected Jason at the dock, knew he was an omega, but what-how did Eduardo or his employers figure that out? Eduardo mentioned a he, but Jason can count on one hand how many people know about his status. None of them would be particularly inclined to reveal that information to Eduardo. No matter how much any of them wanted to hurt him.

"-residents are being urged to stay away from the debris until the Cuban government declares it safe again. However, there might be a bit of a silver lining in this tragedy for one famous Gotham resident. Bruce Wayne, owner of Wayne Enterprises, has finally been reunited with his once long-lost son, Jason Wayne, formerly Jason Todd." No. _No, no, no, no, no._

"Jason," Bruce begins. Jason can't hear him over the thumping of his heart thundering in his chest as he sees his picture, his Gotham Academy school photo when he was fifteen displayed up on the screen. Then another picture beside it, blurry and taken at a far distance but undeniably him in hospital white being wheeled down a hallway on a rolling bed with Bruce, in his pristine suit, jogging alongside him.

"Jason was found in the rubble by Cuban paramedics. Disoriented and hysterical according to eyewitnesses, our very own Jack Ryder was able to snap this picture. Originally, presumed dead in a rebel bombing in Qurac, Jason was identified by Cuban hospital staff. There has been no information as to where Jason has been these past years, but the family will be making a statement later this evening."

"Clark called me," Bruce says when the news anchor signs off and a commercial comes on. "He said you punched a paramedic."

"I kicked a paramedic," Jason closes his eyes. "Tell me this isn't happening."

Bruce hesitates before he speaks again. Careful, handling each word as delicately as a shard of glass. "They pulled you out of the rubble first. Clark arrived a little after they'd put you in the ambulance before you tried to escape."

"I was doing a pretty good job of it," Jason frowns. "He should've let me go."

"He thought he was helping you." There it is. Bruce is protective of only three things in his life; Alfred, Dick, and America's beloved spaceman. Why did Jason think that in this one case it would be any different? Why would Bruce defend his fuck-up of a son against a man who literally probably couldn't say the word "fuck?"

"Lot of good that did." Jason motions to the television. "The entire world knows I'm still alive."

"When I told him to get you," Bruce continues. "The hospital wouldn't give you up, not even to Superman. Only to your legal guardian."

Jason sinks back into his pillows. He knew. Of course, he knew. Ever since he woke up in that pile of bricks with Flamingo's innards cascading down on him he knew that his life was over. The hospital workers were going to find out about his status and then they'd go about finding his legal family or state-appointed guardian--more like _owner_. And if they couldn't they would find one of the many generous government volunteers to become his eternal babysitter. Jason had planned to sneak away during that process. In and out, another omega stolen in the dead of night from his bed.

Bruce had effectively weighed Jason's desire for secrecy against whatever inflated sense of protective duty he had to safeguard his poor “omegan” child. Of course, Bruce’s interests would win out over what was right. Choosing the worst time to play the worried and concerned father figure. Would’ve helped a long time ago without having needing to ruin Jason's life in the process.

"Do you have any idea what you've done?"

He says it less emotional than he thought he would. The burning fury and icy pit of anxious worry consume each other, leaving him disappointingly hollow. Bereft of scathing words that, until this point, he’d spew during nightmares where Bruce told everyone about what he is. Maybe that's why it affects Bruce so much more. Can see it in the dark rings of his eyes as he turns his head down, shame-faced. Jason would laugh if he weren’t so fucking cold.

"After seeing the state Dick was in, I couldn't...I wouldn't leave you to die in a hospital room by yourself."

"You had no problem doing that before," which is a low fucking blow with how violently Bruce flinches at that. Doesn't take it back though. How can he? Bruce has in the course of a few days destroyed anything that Jason once had claim over. He is effectively nothing in the eyes of the United Nations or the government of his own home state. An endangered animal that's meant to be tagged and put in captivity to study.

"No matter how angry you are with me," Bruce says. "I will not let you lay there and think that I don't love you."

"This isn't love, this is ownership."

"I wasn't about to lose my son again!" Bruce snarls, suddenly, ferociously. Gripping the edge of the bed Bruce leans over the railing and Jason, weak on medication and exhaustion, sinks into the covers, a simpering mess. He hates being an omega. Hates that his first response to the slightest hint of irritation is to roll over and show his belly. "When they wouldn't let Clark take you home, I came to do it instead. The only way to get the hospital to release you into my care without _kidnapping you_ was to prove your identity. I'm sorry, Jason, I acted based on emotion alone and I would do it again if it meant making sure you were _okay_."

Jason pursues his lips and turns his head to the side. Stares out the open window at the rooftops of Old Havana. A woman a few buildings away shakes out a small carpet through an open window, while her neighbor practices the piano. Pigeons, feathers glittering purple and green in the bright sun rays, gather on the electrical wires that run between the buildings and the telephone poles. Cooing and eyeing a few children playing marbles on a rooftop with sandwiches stacked high on a plate beside them.

"How is Dick," he says, eventually; because there is nothing else he can think to stay without further invoking Bruce's anger. He is too tired to combat it with his own right now. Pathetically he can feel the sting of tears against the corner of his eyes already. Doubts how well he can hang on to his composure if Bruce continues to combat his own foul mood further with lies of faux concern.

Bruce deflates at the mention. Sits down on the bed and closes his eyes. "He's been placed in a medically-induced coma for the time being."

"That bad?" Jason says.

"That bad."

Jason remembers throwing something at Dick. A flash bang? No, an explosive he meant to use to sink the _Orpheus_. Dick being thrown back into the open door of the warehouse before Eduardo set off the explosives. There were a few seconds before Eduardo pressed the button, he could have escaped and made his way back. That is unless Dick hadn't fully taken care of Bane yet.

"Will he," Jason swallows. "Will he recover?"

Bruce looks at him. So, so old.

"I don't know."

* * *

Despite the amount aches and pains, and the way he’d been have buried alive all over again he only suffers from minor injuries. A minor concussion and a few stitches from the metal that pierced his arm with some severe bruising on his hips from the concrete that landed on top of him. He can walk without aid, if with a little bit of a limp, and is only given a prescription for antibiotics.

"Most of the pain can be dealt with over the counter medication," the doctor told Bruce, not Jason like he was somehow suddenly incompetent of taking care of his own person. "If the pain persists or becomes unbearable make sure he sees a doctor. The X-rays didn't show anything, but it isn't impossible that internal damage from the blast to manifest days after the explosion. Keep an eye on him and don't let him move around for too long and he should be fine."

"Of course," Bruce said like Jason wasn't even there. "Thank you."

Though he could walk, and proved to Bruce he could unaided, they wheeled him out, blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Waiting beyond the hospital main entrance a sea of flashing cameras awaited them. Most were local Cuban reporters who asked how Jason was doing with soft smiles and reassuring words. Then there were the Gotham reporters, circling, with the beady eyes of vultures.

"Mr. Todd, where have you been the past six years?"

"Is it true you were in a mental hospital being treated for amnesia after the Qurac bombing?"

"Were you kidnapped and forced into the sex trafficking ring in Shanghai, Mr. Todd?"

It's probably one of the only times Jason actually defaults to stereotypical Omegan behavior. He ducks his head, hiding it into the folds of his blanket as Bruce, stone-faced wheels him past the snapping cameras and shouting reporters into the back of a black Bentley--a poor disguise for the Batmobile--where Alfred waits in the driver's seat.

"Master Jason," and even the warm, welcoming smile on Alfred's face can't ease the discomfort in his unsteady feet.

"Al," Jason says and tucks himself against the opposite door, locks firmly in place. Doubts that Bruce would willingly put him into a car with doors Jason could slip out of with ease. Like most Bats, all of them were full-on Houdinis.

The ride to the airport is even worse than waking up and finding out his world has been effectively limited to whatever his guardian—master--say he can. He could run away, certainly, but the Omegan Registry would interview Bruce extensively, place him on a watchdog list for five years and regularly schedule an OPA agent, Omega Protection Agency, to drop in unannounced and search everything from private Wayne Enterprise projects to the nuts and bolts of Wayne Manor. Jason didn't hate Bruce enough to expose Batman to the entire world.

"You're off duty," Bruce says halfway to the José Martí International Airport. "I don't know why I allowed it for so long, but as of now the Red Hood died along with Flamingo in the warehouse explosion."

"What do you expect me to do then?" Jason glares. "Sit at a computer desk all day like Barbara? Or Tim? The little devil on your shoulder telling you to go left then right?"

"When I say off-duty," Bruce starts, "I mean completely. No more vigilante work-"

That hurts worse than nearly dying all over again. " _No_."

"I shouldn't have let you. I should have taken you home the moment I realized who you were. That was my mistake. The Lazarus pit has done more damage on men's minds than anything, there's no telling what it did to yours."

"Oh, right, because my feeble mind can't handle the pit, " Jason spits.

"Your anger has led to the deaths of dozens of people," Bruce says. " I should have realized that the waters would affect you differently. That is my fault."

"Don't you fucking dare," Jason says and if he had enough energy in him he'd break the stupidly expensive window of the Bentley and throw himself onto the asphalt. Being this close to Bruce for so long brought out things him in those public crusades against Omegan hormones always accused him of. Emotional, borderline hysterical. He hated being a living stereotype. "Don't say that to me."

"There are numerous things you can do that will make just as much or _more_ of a difference than you could as the Red Hood."

"Like playing secretary to the replacement? Or fetching coffees for the CEOs of your foundations while dutifully taking notes. Sugar with your coffee, sir? Of course, that’s all a brainless omega like me is good for. Maybe you meant babysitting for single working mothers."

"Jason, stop it, now." Bruce says.

"I should've died," Jason says. There was no other life Jason would tolerate. His purpose, his reason for staying around after his unwanted return from the grave had been stolen. It would have been better if Flamingo succeeded.

"Don't say that," Alfred says, pale-faced and so terribly shaken from the front seat. "Please, don't say that, Jason."

He looks out the window, embarrassed and ashamed. Hurting the only man Jason has never once felt a sliver of ill will towards is worse than the entire shit show that was this morning.

"I'm sorry," Jason says after a moment. "I didn't mean it, Al."

They don't speak again the whole flight home.

* * *

Dick is a lot worse off than Jason.

The entire room is stuffed with medical equipment, alien looking with knobs and blinking lights all hooked to Dick's body with various wires and lines. A breathing tube is shoved down his throat; several drips are hooked up to one large IV running into the crook of his elbow. Half of his head is shaved on the side where a bloody bandage sits, the hint of an ugly stitch barely peeking out beneath the dirty gauze.

He’s had four surgeries over the past several hours and even then, Leslie’s face is a bloodless white when she looks at Bruce and tells him "25%"

A twenty-five percent chance that Dick will live and Jason would use the term live mildly.

Dick, in the medical definition of the word, died twice. He was dead when they found him, underneath the collapsed rubble of the warehouse, in a puddle of blood and half-burned chemicals that ate through the melted protective armor on his left calf and part the flesh inside it without a pulse. They'd restarted his heart and got him breathing again until Clark arrived, saw the extent of the damage and flew him at Mach 1 all the way back to Gotham where Bruce's doctors could treat him. Then, because it was Dick Grayson, died on the operating table during surgery and, had it not been for Clark's vision, Leslie wouldn't have found the internal damage until it was too late.

Cracked ribs, missing half of his left gastrocnemius muscle, a nasty case of sepsis he was still recovering from, the expectation--not possibility--of seizures as a result of the brain swelling from the blast and being deprived of oxygen for more than two minutes, extensive nerve damage to his right deltoid and triceps along with numerous minor injuries. All the technology in the world and beyond and Dick would never fly again.

"There's got to be something you can do," Jason asks while Bruce, silent and unmoving, stares at Dick's body through the glass window. "Victor could probably find something that could help-"

"Victor had a childhood of experimental tests conducted on him by the people who should have been raising him. His entire life was spent preparing him for the eventuality of adopting those parts into his system. That is why it works for Victor." It's so utterly hopeless. The Batman thinking a situation was beyond his aid, that just didn't happen.

"You could make something," Jason tries and Bruce takes a shuddering breath.

"Even if I could make something. Something that would still be able to connect with what little nerves he has left that hasn't been eaten or burned away it's not my choice." Bruce rubs his eyes. "It would be Dick's."

Dick might accept it. Desperation to help outweighing the fear and annoyance of numerous tests and trials while being poked with needles. Stuck with shitty prototype limbs until he finally found the perfect match. What a life to lead. Jason doesn't know much about his time spent as a vegetable in Gotham's dirty alleys or Ra's palace. But knows the clinical touch of a doctor's gloved fingers and shudders hard in revulsion. Dick would lose his mind.

There's a shout from down the hall.

"Sir, you can't go down there, visiting hours are-" someone says.

"Get out of my way! My father owns this hospital, if you want to keep your job you will move," as if things could get any worse.

Jason only knows Damian as Robin. He hardly met the little bastard out of costume, neither while he lived with his mother and the League of Assassins. Spoiled brat that had only gotten worse now that his father, one of the most well-known men in the world, had stepped in to raise him. Maybe if Damian had a father that was a little more normal he'd be a decent kid. Even then that was a big if.

That sentiment is shared, if not amplified when Damian spots Jason standing next to Bruce in front of Dick's hospital room.

"What is that _thing_ doing here?" Oh, seems Damian also inherited his grandfather's hatred for the “abortion of genders” that were omegas. How surprising is that? Here's a hint. Not very.

"Damian," Bruce says, exasperated. "I told you not to come to the hospital."

Which is hardly a request Damian could have been expected to follow. If there was anything that gained his attention faster, it was the name Dick followed by Grayson.

"I am glad I did. Come back to finish the job, Todd?" Damian, standing no higher than four feet at his age, is about as threatening as a tantrum-throwing toddler in an expensive suit. "I assume you must be overjoyed with what you have done to Grayson."

"Oh, completely," Jason says. "It's like Christmas."

Damian gapes at him, horrorstruck. Sarcasm is still, so it would seem, an extremely foreign concept. "How dare you!"

"Damian," Bruce stands in front of Jason, which isn't that just the cherry on top of the never-ending shit pile? Bruce defending Jason from a boy the size of a Pygmy horse. It very nearly makes him knock Bruce in the head for expecting him to stand aside and let Bruce fight on his behalf. "I brought Jason here."

"Then you are an idiot," Damian shoves Bruce, about as good as a child rallying against Superman. "He almost got Grayson killed."

"I didn't invite Dick down to get blown up in Havana you little shit," Jason steps around Bruce. Like hell is he going to let either of these bastards pretend like he isn't there. "If he was smart he would've stayed in Gotham. Better yet, he would have stopped the False Face Society from even leaving the harbor."

Damian scoffs. "Typical of you, displacing the blame just like your kind does."

"My kind?" Jason says. "Excuse me?"

"Of course, Grayson would go after you. You need someone to watch you so you don't get into trouble. Just like any other omega."

"I'm not the one in need of a babysitter you snot," Jason snarls.

"Enough," Bruce barks. Damian, glaring, immediately drops, straightening out and dipping his head. Jason sees right through it. Trying to show Bruce how much of a better man he is than Jason. _But you aren't a man, are you? You're one of them._

"It's no one's fault. We all know what happens when we got out on patrol, we're lucky that Clark was able to get there in time. Damian, I won't tolerate you being disrespectful to the hospital staff or Jason. He is as much a part of this family as Dick, omega or not, if you insult him again you'll be looking at months, not weeks, off duty."

Damian dips his head. "I'm sorry."

"At least you get a return date," Jason mutters.

Bruce had always been extremely reluctant to physically punish him. Remembers Dick bemoaning how soft Bruce was to Jason and the number of spankings he had to endure. Once after a patrol gone totally wrong—as they do after accidentally overshooting the target building and swinging into the Gotham landfill rather than a drug bust--Jason spent the entire night mouthing off in frustrated anger. He'd made a mess of the dining room, throwing the tea Alfred had poured them all over the bright, red Persian rug. Bruce had smacked him across the thighs once but so hard he had a red hand-print that stayed well into the next day. After that Bruce apologized and spent the week making it up to Jason.

The backhand that cracks across Jason's face sends him sprawling onto the floor. Even Damian, still pink in the face, looks shocked. Green eyes darting back and forth between Jason's form and the imposing statue that has become Bruce. Jason winces and resists curling up into a ball to cradle his face.

Bruce looks down at him, unsympathetic under the harsh fluorescent lighting of the hospital waiting room.

"I have tried to be patient with you, Jason. I understand that this change is going to be extremely difficult for you. I know you're angry and you're hurt, but I will not stand here and let you continue to insult and berate me for what I did to help you." Bruce finally, finally lowers his arm and straightens out his suit. "It would be in our best interests, after what I've done, for you to not see me for awhile."

Feeling guilty so he's sending Jason away. Classic fucking Bruce. So why does it make Jason want to cling to his legs and beg him to reconsider?

"Where do you expect me to go?" Jason says and he speaks without snark, or anger or anything. Emotionless. There is nothing left to be angry over anymore. There is nothing left to fight Bruce over. His life is already Bruce's. His rights, his property, everything he is belongs to him.

"You said it yourself. You don't want to be stuck behind the confines of a desk to help people. You and I both know someone who will need immense support readjusting to life," Bruce stands aside and motions to Dick's room. "And you both have a lot of time on your hands to learn how to adapt together.”

Bruce turns away from Jason, leaving him on the floor, facing the firm and tense line of his back. "It's why, as of yesterday evening, I made Dick your permanent guardian."


	3. Today is the First Day of the Rest of Your Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life and writing blocks gotta love em. Un'beta'd so spelling/grammar errors ahead.

Jason spends the first night in the hospital, sitting in a chair in a waiting room that smells sharply of sanitizer and sweat from feverish patients. Despite the amount of influx Gotham Medical receives--considering it is the only big hospital the city itself--most people give Jason a wide berth. He supposes he might have avoided a patient like himself too. Sitting listlessly in the chair, unfocused glassy blue eyes staring straight ahead, the Hermanos Ameijeiras patient ID band still on his wrist. No one sits in the chairs beside him. A man, hand wrapped up in bloody toilet paper from a work accident comes into the full room. The only open seats are by Jason. The man gives him one look, sways unsteadily on his feet, and elects to stand.

Maybe it's because he's scared Jason is insane. Or maybe he recognizes the bright yellow patient ID around his wrists that signifies his status as an omega. Worries about what Jason's guardian may say when he returns from where ever he's gone. No omega would be alone in a hospital in distress like he is. He hopes it's the first, but knows it's not.

He keeps his head in between his hands, trying to comprehend that his life; his everything was not solely his anymore. And that was a trip wasn't it? Growing up afraid that one-day someone could, effectively, tell you when to jump, stand, and sit, and be fully within their rights. Dick is a nice man. Jason, down to the bottom of his very soul, knows this.

But will Dick be a right and just man in the midst of grieving the loss of his own freedom? That Jason does not know. It scares him.

A lot of men think Jason is the angry Robin. How could they not? It was the way he protected himself in a childhood centered on cruelty. Anger was an easy emotion to call on in defense. He likes it, takes comfort in the protective veil of red it casts over him. However, most people don't know that out of all the Robins, Dick is the cruelest. He is kind and he is morally good that much is obvious. But place Dick among the Titans and he becomes their own personal Batman. Similar emotional issues and crippling insecurity wrapped up in new packaging. That is the Dick Jason fears will wake up on the bed.

Leslie finds him a little after two am; wringing his hands together, with dark circles under his eyes. She puts a careful hand on his shoulder.

"You’re scaring the other patients," she says and Jason never thought he'd ever appreciate her no-bullshit attitude more than now. "Go home. Take a shower and get a change of clothes."

He looks around the stuffed waiting room. At the hunkering forms of men and women, pale with flushed cheeks and hazy eyes. Then his stomach growls loudly and his throat, tacky and dry, closes in on itself. "Yeah, yeah."

* * *

Jason has three safe houses in Gotham located in the Bowery, Gotham Heights, and Old Gotham. Each has a number of weapons, lethal and non-lethal, around ten thousand dollars in cash, and various other items. Jason keeps case files on paper in a locked file cabinet in the penthouse in Old Gotham. The digital copies on a password protected laptop in Gotham Heights and his developing cases on a wall dedicated to string-maps in the Bowery. Each place is secured with an alert system that sends a trigger to his phone if any of them are broken into or entered.

But Jason doesn't have his phone and the Gotham Bats never let a little alarm system stop them.

Every one of his safe houses in Gotham are cleared out. His guns are gone and so are his ornamental weapons. The ones he collected with Kori and Roy around the world have only left the slight dust mark behind. His equipment ranging from spare helmets to experimental Kevlar and specialized ammunition has been removed. The Kris Talia had given him, that he had tucked against the side of his pillow every night is not there. Even his workshop desk with all of his tools from screwdrivers to small, silver washers had been taken. The keys to his numerous motorcycles, the vehicles themselves, even the drop he made in Crime Alley with one spare uniform, passport, a few various currencies all gone. The only thing Jason finds beside a bed in the Old Gotham safe house is a bundle with all of the American money gathered from each, around thirty thousand dollars, and a pile of plain clothes. Not his clothes, but clothes he has seen the omegas around Gotham Heights wearing.

He'd like to say he reacted calmly. Would hate to play into the stereotype that he is nothing more than a being controlled by irrational mood swings. Because Jason honestly expected it after Bruce's speech the day before and had always lived with the knowledge he was living a borrowed life. That one day the universe or whoever was in charge of fate or reality would figure out the con Jason had been pulling since birth. That doesn't make the empty rooms and the removal of his _things_ any easier. So he lashes out.

Overturns the grand king-sized bed then throws the clothes around the room. Punches the wall and continues slamming his fists into the wall over and over. Lasts long past breaking the skin on his knuckles and his entire arm goes numb from the shock and pain. Opens his mouth and just lets out a yell of desperate fury that is more animal than human and tears at the paint on the wall. Rips and rips until some of his fingernails tear off and he, finally, is too exhausted to do anything more than collapse onto the floor and sob.

His life. _His life_.

It's irrefutably over and there is nothing he can do.

* * *

Waking up after a night sobbing your figurative guts out feels like waking to the onset of a nasty illness. His nose is plugged up, chest and throat sore. His stomach is angrier than ever and reminds him, viciously, he has eaten nothing in too many hours. Nausea combined with the excruciating ache radiating up from the raw meat of his knuckles has him rushing to open a window and then vomit into the crisp morning air.

"Fuck," he wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. Rides out the next painful wave of hunger with the sea breeze from the harbor against his face. At least it provides a decent distraction from the remnants of the crippling despair he'd wallowed in the night before.

He pulls his head back into the apartment when his stomach finally settles. Prioritizes and compartmentalizes his situation as he had done when Talia had told him about Tim Drake. Weeping over his situation will do him nothing. Just like it did in childhood and the early weeks after his resurrection. Wait for an opening and learn while you can. If he approaches his new position with a critical eye he won't sink into a deeper depression. At least that much he hopes.

Which means taking a shower, eating and then going back to Gotham Medical. Going back to Dick.

He showers in the safe house and dresses in the least offensive clothes that had been left for him. Most are soft fabrics with softer pastel colors. Jason chooses a pink shirt, because at least that reminds him of red, with collar deep enough it shows off the hint of dark hair on his chest. The pants are slim fit jeans and the shoes are designer. Uses the medical kit in the bathroom to wrap his hands--knows he'll need stitches--and washes his mouth with hydrogen peroxide. He stuffs around three hundred dollars in his pocket and hides the rest behind a loose brick around twenty feet off the ground in Chinatown. That, of course, comes after taking a long time to scale the drainage pipe with his useless hands.

Finally, after all, that's been taken care of, he stops by a street vendor selling hotdogs. Has the most awkward conversation of his life.

"Chili dog, huh?" The man's apron is grease-stained and his mustache his unkempt, but his smile is friendly and he talks to Jason like a person. "Glad to see someone in snobbish part of Gotham who actually eats real food."

He doesn't ask where Jason's guardian might be and apologizes for not having a lot of napkins. Jason shows him how much he doesn't need them by wiping the grease on his mouth on the back of his hand. They both laugh and Jason makes a mental note to find him again.

After all, he's going to spend a lot of time on the ground now.

Gotham Medical is just as busy as it was when he left in the middle of the night. Leslie, who was only working at the hospital because she needed more equipment and people to help her save Dick's life, works in shifts. The doctors appreciate having her expertise and she doesn't like saying no to help people that might be dying. The receptionist at the front desk smiles at him.

"You look so much healthier, sweetheart," and that catches him off guard better than any of Nygma's half-thought-out riddles. No one's ever called him something that started with sweet before. "Leslie already said you'd be coming back in. You can go right on up. Do you remember the room number?"

"I do, thanks," Jason says.

Someone gets the elevator door for him on the way up. Jason tries to ignore the way the man discreetly leers at the shape of his ass and the curve of his waist. He gets out seven floors too early when he can't take it anymore and climbs up the stairs. The movement helps him ignore the sick crawling beneath his skin.

Leslie is waiting for him when he reaches the fourteenth floor. "There you are, come with me I need you to help me with Dick's care routine. You're going to have to learn how to do it anyway. Might as well be now."

Jason could say no. Could refuse and sit there in the room and just listening to the wheeze of the mechanical lungs until someone tells him to go. He nods and follows Leslie down the hallway to Dick's room.

Dick looks terrible. That's the understatement of the century. Has hardly improved since Jason's seen him over the last twenty-four hours. That's of course save for the different shade of pale his skin currently is. Jason hates that the most. How pallid he looks against the dark black of his hair. Jason wonders if this is what he might have looked like when he finally crawled out of his own grave all those years ago.

The room is bathed in vases of blooming flowers, bright and colorful. They are packed together on the headboard of Dick's bed and the tables on either side. Almost like he was lying in a field of them, a few fallen petals entwined with the black curls of his hair. The air is pungent with the sickly-sweet smell of them and the subtle scent of sweat.

"He needs a bath, he sweats constantly," Leslie says. "We're trying to keep the fever down but there's only so much we can do as understaffed as we are. He needs the bag from his catheter changed every few hours and just general tidying of his person and the room. Do you think you can handle that?"

Jason nods. He's always been good at following orders, no matter what Bruce or the other Bats think. He was raised listening to his father's screaming orders at him. He did what everyone told him to do at Ra's compound in Baghdad. Prioritize and learn.

Leslie grabs his hands and unwraps the bandages. She clucks her tongue and dumps the bloody bandages into the garbage. "Before you do anything let me stitch these for you. I don't need another one of you coming down with a blood infection."

That morning he changes the water in the flower vases around the bed. None bear a card or an address, which means they are mostly, if not all, from Bruce. Wipes Dick's brow free of sweat and dried salt clinging to the pores of his face. There is already a light but thick layer of stubble growing and Jason shaves him carefully. There is a moment where he hesitates, the edge of the razor curving over the lump of his Adam's apple. Stares at it quietly and thinks just how easy it would be. Then he moves down to the rest of his body, avoiding the old gauze and stitches. Wipes away the oozing pus and dried blood with a damp cloth. Changes the fluid bag and dumps it appropriately, then sits in the room and watches the news with a tired and bored eye.

Dick doesn't get any visitors. Not that Jason expected any yet. Bruce is probably waiting to break the news to the community at large until he's sure Dick's going to pull through. Clark is most likely burning up inside, keeping such a secret from the rest of the Justice League. That’s one of the few entertaining thoughts that Jason's had all day. It gets him through the next week monotonously cleaning Dick's form. Wipe down, shave the stubble, change the fluid bag, and repeat.

It continues like that for a week that never wants to end. Because of his status as Wayne's boy, no one kicks him out. He sleeps in the plush, yet highly uncomfortable chair in the corner of the spacious room. Jason is kicked out of the hospital at least for a few hours at the end of the week.

"Go home Jason," Leslie says. "You need to sleep, I don't need another patient to look after."

Jason may or may not have been using the hospital to prevent having to come to a final decision about that. "And go where?'

Leslie sighs. "Dick's got one more surgery to go through and I don't need you here while the surgeon's team goes in and out. That's going to be a lot more time sedated and in recovery. Go home. Relax and I'll tell you when we need you alright?"

"Alright."

Safe houses ransacked and legally required to have a guardian co-sign on an apartment lease there is no home to return to. Hotels would ask too many questions about where his guardian was and there was no way the receptionist wouldn't Google his name even if he said "Jason Todd." The paparazzi would be camped outside his bedroom door. The manor Jason didn't spare a second thought. There was only one place he could really go.

* * *

Five dollars, one thirty minute bus ride and a twenty-minute climb to jimmy open a window later Jason considers sleeping in a cardboard box instead. Dick's apartment is one of the messiest places in Blüdhaven. Hands down. He's seen alleyways in the middle of the Bowery with more garbage than cement and even they don't compare to the sheer disorganized clutter of Dick's apartment.

"Jesus," Jason mutters. At least he doesn't risk standing still too long with his own overly depressive thoughts. Though he could stand without the ratty, cum-stained socks under the bed. _How old are you Dick? Thirteen?_

He does the laundry first. There were too many clothes blocking the floor, the hallway and the hamper was buried in a mountain of dirty shorts, shirts, underwear, and glittery tank-tops--for what Jason hardly wanted to know. When they're warm from the dryer he folds them and arranges them based on what he can only assume the original organization was in the dresser. Alfred probably did that; Dick could hardly coordinate things by correct size. He vacuums the carpet after--picks up more than what should be sanitary of dirt, shrapnel, and cereal bits in an apartment of this size--makes the bed, and mops the few spaces of tile and hardwood floors through the apartment. Dusting takes over an hour and leaves gray handprints on the dark color of his jeans when he brushes off his hands. The dishwasher is broken because of course it is and Dick's taken to piling up the used dishware in the sink.

How the man hasn't died from some bacterial infection from his own pig's pen of a house is beyond Jason. He's seen cleaner sitting swamps in Chernobyl.

"Jesus," Jason says when he opens the cabinets in the kitchen. "Dickie you need an intervention, bud."

Boxes upon boxes of cereal, like an addict with their stash of vice. Looks like Lucky Charms and Captain Crunch is Dick's own personal meth. The refrigerator has milk--obviously--a bag of carrots and numerous old to-go boxes to Big Belly Burger and Pauli's. How Dick managed to keep his impeccable body shape was yet another thing to add to the list of Dick's perfect capabilities. Unless Jason wants to starve--or make his thick thighs even bigger--a run to the market was more than just "needed."

Without the mess Dick's apartment is atrocious. There are burn marks on the ceiling in the kitchen where whatever terrible creation of food he'd attempt to cook has merged with the paint--which was the worst shade of light green he'd ever seen. Half of the furniture looked like it was bought from the yard sale of an old porn studio that shot movies in the 70's, shaggy carpeting, animal-skin furniture, tacky lamp and all. It's appalling, offensive to the eyes and one hundred percent Dick Grayson.

A quick walkthrough of the building reveals the main entry hosts the living room and kitchen area. Two hallways that branch out to the left and right, the left leading to a guest bedroom and attached washroom. The guest bedroom is mostly untouched. Holes from pin-tacks litter the wall and there are suspicious black marks that look like burns around the headboard of the bed. Kori's old room maybe when they together. Would explain why the room barely had any bit of Dick's presence inside of it. It will do better than the 80's leopard print couch he'd been planning to sleep on. The right hallway leads to Dick's room, master bathroom, and weight room. Jason immediately notices the false wall in the weight room’s closet and locates the biometric lock hidden behind a portion of peel-away wallpaper.

As much as Jason would like to snoop around Dick's own Batcave he doesn't have the equipment to break into the room. He'd found several of Bruce's own little cameras set up around the apartment--the overhead light in the kitchen, the slightly off-green portion of wall in the weight room--and doesn't need Batman storming in at three in the morning. So he leaves it alone.

He showers in Dick's and despises the floral, salon scent of the shampoo and conditioner. The soap is even worse. Dick doesn't have any cologne and the syrupy-sweet smell heightens the already distinguishable omegan scent. Most humans have their own distinct "aroma du jour." Barely noticeable unless you're shoving your nose right into someone's pits, it was only omegas that, once again, were an outlier. Extremely obvious and incredibly distinctive, omega pheromones were just about as potent as any of Ivy's spores. Wasn't that bad years ago. However, with the threat of extinction and tough competition evolution picked up the slack, making their scents more alluring and their heats more powerful.

Jason frowns. He hasn't had a heat in two years. Thank you Talia al Ghul. Makes things a lot less complicated when you're not locking yourself in a fortified bunker in a pile of blankets with some man beating on your door every other month. There's a rumor, Jason doesn't know how true it is considering the use of suppressants are all but illegal in every country but Canada and Norway, that heats after suppressant use is horrific. Kind of make you want to die all over again kind of bad. Now that Bruce has cleaned him out of every single medication he used to stall guarantees heats, for now, are back on schedule.

The realization leaves him cold. The apartment is suddenly suffocating; the walls look like they've moved at least a foot inward. Jason clings to the wall and drags himself through the front door, down the steps of the building and out into the humid, evening air. Bends over onto his knees and takes deep, shaky breaths. Then his stomach flips so violently, like being caught underneath a crashing tidal. It's all he can do to push past a scandalized couple and vomit violently into the alleyway. The crawling underneath his too tight skin doesn't stop.

"Excuse me?" A woman stops, a toddler holding her hand and a baby in her arm. "Are you alright?"

Jason's stomach lurches. Pushes the bile in his throat down and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "I'm fine."

Her gaze remains unconvinced. "Here," reaching into her purse she pulls out a water bottle. "Rinse, you'll feel better."

The water is too warm to be soothing but he washes his mouth out and turns away from the sharp smell of the sick. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," she looks over him carefully. Her warm, brown eyes drift over his attire, focusing on the fitted waistline of his floral shirt. Her gaze softens. "Cool water on the back of your neck. It helps believe me.

She readjusts her hold on the baby in her arms. Jason flattens his mouth. "It's not like that."

"Well, it shouldn't matter if so or not. Ginger is your friend," she smiles and pulls the toddler along--who makes a right stink about his mother giving some stranger the rest of his water. Jason considers them and the possibility. It haunts him through his long walk to the grocery. When he sees the steak knife, embellished with a useless but beautiful wooden handle and stained sliver blade, he buys it along with the piles of vegetables, meats, and fruits to fill the empty space of Dick's fridge.

Tucks it beneath his pillow despite the meager security it provides in the place of his stolen Kris.

* * *

Alfred is the only one to drop by the apartment on the third day since he moved in.

"Master Jason," he says. Ironic, Jason is hardly a master of anything anymore. He looks better than the last time Jason saw him, pale with worry. Cheeks flushed with color and sporting a more casual look--one undone button on his shirt--he frowns when he spots the stitches on Jason's knuckles.

"Al," quick to distract him. "What are you doing here?"

"Leslie informed me about you being in need of a better wardrobe," Alfred eyes the clothes on his back. Jason's washed them, but that might have been two days ago and didn't want to wear any of Dick's clothes around the apartment. Hasn't touched the rest of the clothes he'd taken from the safe house since a young woman with a hungry glint and a pad of paper asked him "who was Jason Wayne wearing?" Come to think of it Jason hasn't left the apartment since then.

"You didn't have to come all the way out here."

"Nonsense," Alfred says and turns around grabbing the two large suitcases behind him. More or less drags them across the doorway and drops them with a thunk in the living room. "I hope these will be satisfactory."

He opens them. Inside are his clothes. _His clothes_. The leather jacket he'd stolen from Egon, several of the smaller knives he collected in Nanda Parbat, a few of his old schematics and one of his custom-built 10-millimeter Glocks. It is hardly a fraction of everything that had been taken in Bruce's seizure, but the small portion of his old life, his things, makes his throat unbearably tight.

"Al," and it is so hard to speak with how sharply his eyes burn. "How did you manage to get all of this?"

"It took me longer than I'd like to admit. You are very good at hiding your things, sir." Alfred observes the packages with almost silent dissatisfaction. "I gathered most of what I could. I hope it is sufficient enough for you, what I did manage to get a hold of."

"It's more than a little. Thanks, Alfred. This really," _it means the world to me._ "Thanks."

"You're welcome," Alfred ducks his head, but Jason catches the wetness gathering in the corner of his pink eyes. He glances around the apartment. "It's good to see the apartment in such fine shape. Good work, Master Jason."

Jason shrugs pleased slightly at the offered praise. There's a larger part that angrily hisses at the back of his mind and calls him an idiot. Of course, he'd be happy for what you've managed to do. That's all omegas are good for, cleaning up after their owners. It's harder to shove the voice down and take the compliment, squeezing his fists so hard the stitches burn from the stretch. Jason purses his lips and nods.

"Thanks," he forces out despite the rolling in his stomach. "Dick's kind of a messy guy isn't he?"

"That he is," Alfred wets his lips and looks away quietly. "How is he?"

"Has a few more surgeries to go through this week, but other than that he's doing pretty okay, I guess. Leslie seems to think so."

Alfred nods, shoulders tense. "Will he be, waking up soon?"

Jason lowers his shoulders. Offers sincerity in place of his anxiety. That Dick might not wake up. That Dick might and not be the man either of them remembered. That he wakes up the same, but bitter and angry at a world he may no longer be a part of. "I don’t know Al, I wish I could tell you."

"That's alright," Alfred says. "I'm just glad to know you're both alive."

Not all right, just alive. The pragmatism in Alfred's grimness is partly touching. At least one of the men Jason saw as a parent understands the ugly truth of Jason--and for that matter Dick's--new reality. Not trying to act like it was a mercy he should be grateful for. "We're harder to kill than a cockroach."

"And thank goodness for that," Alfred sighs. "I should get back to Master Bruce. Notify him of Master Dick's condition and how you are doing."

"It was good to see you again, Al. I...I missed you."

"And I you, Jason," Alfred looks at him with such pity. "I know this isn't the life that you wanted for yourself, I truly do. But maybe it's for the best."

Jason turns away. "I think we're going to have to agree to disagree there. I find it a lot harder to be happy in my condition."

"I don't doubt you, Master Jason." Alfred takes one last look around the apartment. Fixes the couch with such a repulsed glower it forces the scowl off Jason's face in favor of an amused smirk. "I'll try to get more of your possessions for you. Lord knows Dick could use your sense of decor if at the very least to make this home more comfortable for you."

He doubts it ever will, but the sincerity is enough to make him feel a bit better. Jason leads Alfred to the door. He stands in the entryway for an hour after Alfred leaves, pressing his forehead against the doorframe and breathing in softly through his nose. Jason can adapt. It's what he's spent his whole life doing after all.

Everything changes, as his life continues to do, that evening when Leslie gives him a call at 10:30.

"He's awake."

* * *

Dick hardly looks any better than a week ago. Head still half shaved, dark blue veins standing out beneath the too pale shade of his skin plugged up with enough tubes and wires to look like a power outlet. The nurses had obviously given up on shaving him with the thick growth of black stubble standing out against the hollows of his cheeks and arch of his lips. The only thing that's changed significantly is the fact his eyes are open, albeit slightly cloudy but so, so very angry.

The tube is out of his mouth when Jason is escorted in. A shame, really, with it there it would a definite excuse for whatever accusation was brewing on the tip of Dick's tongue. At least that way Jason could stand there in uncomfortable silence rather than suffer through Dick's instant frantic questioning.

"Eduardo," his voice is rough and dry and brittle. "Is he dead?"

And if that doesn't immediately put Jason on the defense he doesn't know what will. "Yes," Jason grits out. "I didn't kill him."

"Did you even help him after the explosion? Or did you see him weakly struggling in the rumble and kick his hand away." Dick would be the man to be virtuously defensive on behalf of a man that had nearly eaten the face of his once-brother. Post-pentobarbital-drug haze or not, Jason would be more alarmed if he came out of his coma whimpering apologies at Jason's feet. As it happens Jason himself doesn't have enough sympathy over the last few weeks dumping bags of Dick's piss to care.

"Eduardo doesn’t deserve my compassion. He killed and murdered and mutilated women and barely of age children. All of that and I did not aid him with his much-desired demise. _I did not kill him_." It's Jason's biggest failure. The death of Eduardo and the disappearance of Bane--he'd either found help or died in an alleyway in Havana to be feasted on by seagulls--marked the cold end of a case. Jason, without the use of his own equipment and files, could not find out where Eduardo could have learned of his status. Someone told him, but Jason can only think of two people who knew before. And Bruce was the only "he" on that list.

Dick unbothered by whatever inner turmoil may appear on Jason's face, storms on. "But you didn't help."

"He didn't need my help, he was already dead if you must know." Jason glowers. "I'm starting to think he might have shown a little more appreciation if he had been."

"Enough," Leslie sweeps into the room, a scowl on her face and papers piled high in the cradle of her arms. "That's enough from the both of you. Dick, I understand things are confusing and your high-stung coming off the pentobarbital so I'll give you a warning." She turns the full magnitude of her fury to Jason. "I expected better from you. You know how fragile Dick is right now. Any emotional distress could risk destabilization and, at best, a panic attack. "

The hot flush of shame burns him as badly as his first solo night of unauthorized patrol did. Coming home beaten and bloodied to Bruce's disapproving stare and the firm line of his mouth. He'd managed to fail in doing his sole priority within twenty-four hours of Dick waking. Help him adjust, Bruce had told him. In the absence of any other purpose, Jason had promised not to fail in this. Yet here he was, picking a fight with a man who was barely strong enough to lift his own eyelids.

"Sorry," Dick has that bright, dazzling show smile on his face. The blues of his eyes remain stony; cold like ice chips but manages to fool Leslie with well-practiced faux amusement. She buys into it because she doesn't know Dick as well as Jason does or did. And the moment her back turns the smile falls off his face as pain takes hold.

"I'm going to make this as short as possible," Leslie sets down the papers on the desk beneath the wall mounted x-ray film illuminator. "I'll send you a file with instructions to take home when Dick's officially discharged from the hospital. They'll tell you how to wash, care, and bandage the stitches. What they look like if there's an infection and the number to call if they come to loose. Do not, for the love of my sanity at least, try to fix them yourselves. I know that's Bruce training 101, but the damage is extensive and very delicate. It would much safer if you let the professionals care for them. But let's start with the easiest. Is Dick's apartment disability friendly."

"No," Jason answers immediately. Dick sends him a sour glare. "It's not."

"Right," Leslie assesses Dick and nods. "Well, I'd consider relocating. It's going to be hard for the first well several months. Maybe more, it'd be better to start somewhere with a one level-ground floor layout then move up when everyone feels ready."

"I'll manage just fine, thank you. I'm keeping the apartment." Jason understands the sentimentality of Dick's apartment in Blüdhaven. It had been the first place Dick and rented with his own money. Jason is equally defensive of the things he got a hold of without Bruce's aid. Too bad all of them are no longer in his care. Still, it's idiotic and hard to justify such a complicated living arrangement with Dick's new restrictions.

"If you think I'm carrying your ass up the stairs all day you have another thing coming."

"Who said you'd have to?" Dick snarls. "Why are you even here anyway? Bruce didn't want to come all the way down to the hospital himself so he sent you on his behalf?"

Right, Dick's been living under a drug-addled rock the entire time. Hasn't heard the great news yet and Jason wore his real clothes to the hospital today, hiding his scent under discount, pungent men's cologne. No way Dick would be able to smell it with the tons of flowers crowding his bed anyway.

"Dick," Leslie begins too gentle. Dick's already gripping the fabric of the bed in loose fists before she finishes speaking. "I know this might be hard to hear."

"I hear just fine. I have two legs and two arms, I can make it up a few stairs." Dick says. "I can feel my toes and my fingertips. I'm fine." It's impossible to not hear the phrase _I'm not like Barbara_ beneath those frenzied words.

Jason gazes at Leslie and back to Dick. The recognition that Dick doesn't know the extent of his own injuries astonishes him; Leslie was waiting for Jason to be in the room to tell him what? That he was effectively out of control of his own body? That Jason was now his permanent crutch to use whenever he wanted to go out? Maybe Leslie wanted him here so Dick could blame his status on someone else instead of her. Or maybe she thought having an omega in the room would calm him.

"It’s a little more complicated than that, Dick, "Leslie says and pulls a few black, transparent films from the folders of paper. "This might be hard to hear."

Dick studies her carefully. "I have a broken leg."

She looks at him, so very miserable. "If only it were that simple."

She pulls up the pictures of his calf. They look even worse than what Jason had seen cleaning the bandages. Bloody clumps of black and yellow meat, half-dissolved from the flaming spray of acid during the explosion adorn the screen. The stitched up mess that was his calf looked as if someone had taken a melon scooper and carved out holes in his leg. Red knots of stitching ran all the way from his ankle and to the back of his knee. No amount of plastic surgery or laser treatment would fix the hideous mess of his leg. "This is your left calf, or what remains of it. We were able to save the majority of your leg but there is little hope that you will ever be able to put much weight on it. There is barely enough gastrocnemius muscle to keep you standing straight let alone walk or run," she pauses, "or jump."

Dick stares at the picture. Blank-faced and Jason wonders gloomily what must be going through his perfect head. His legs are hardly the feathered, enchanting sight of a bird's wings mid-flight but they are clipped all the same.

"There was also an extreme amount of swelling to your brain from both the explosion waves and the lack of oxygen when your heart stopped. You'll put be on medication, Aptiom, to control your seizures. We can hopefully make it so you only have them intermittently, but there is no telling what kind of recovery you'll be facing until they start occurring. This medication is the basic kind for epilepsy. We'll make adjustments if needed in time."

Leslie stops then brings up another photo of Dick's back and arm. The skin is a blistering red, mottled black and pink with yellow puss. Beside that are the pictures were taken after the skin graft procedure, the red burns now covered with the pink, fresh skin with a fishnet appearance. "We took grafts from the back of your left thigh. While the procedure when well there will be numbness in your right shoulder and arm. It's not temporary. There is a possibility that you will regain feeling but not to the full extent that you had before. I'm sorry, I don't want to be the one to break this to you but I believe in being clear, upfront and honest with your future endeavors. There are several treatments that use part of a brace that will help make walking easier but-"

"Neural implant," Dick says.

Leslie hesitates. "Excuse me?"

"Barbara received a neural implant in South Africa that helped her regain mobility," Dick repeats. There is a desperate glint in his eyes that nearly swallows the blue of his irises with dilated black. Half mad he rambles on. "Is a neural implant possible?"

"Barbara’s experimental treatment worked with months of physical therapy and surgery to bypass the affected nerves in her spine. You don't have that problem, Dick. There is nothing to go around because well, there is nothing to connect to. Your calf muscle is gone, the only thing that would even come close to doing the same is if we amputate your leg mid-thigh, and even then the artificial limbs are not currently at a point where they can do what muscle can. They can mimic it but you have to make a conscious decision to move your muscles. And it moves at a slower rate than muscles naturally move. Synapsing competing with electrical wiring, it's really no competition."

Leslie hesitates, waiting for Dick to nod in understanding. Instead, he stares at the pictures. The loss and grief Jason half-expected to overwhelm him are nowhere to be seen. Resolution and rage are evident in the sharply clenched line of his jaw. The cloudy confusion that had been in his half-lidded eyes upon Jason's entrance has been wiped away. He burns now, looking at the pictures like they are not his, but a crime scene he's struggled to piece together. It makes Jason uncomfortable. Jason and Dick are two very different men. Where Jason reacts with tears and misery, Dick reacts often with knife-sharp words and Red Lantern-type wrath.

"We can help you, pain wise, managing it," Leslie offers. The room too stifling in the face of Dick's building anger.

"I don't care about managing the pain I want a solution," Dick barks, fingers digging harshly into the palms of his hands. "What you are giving me are not _solutions_. You're supposed to help me and you're not."

Leslie handles it a lot better than Jason would. He'd probably be yelling at this point. Look stupid, you are never going to run and jump and climb and fly again don’t you get it? That's it, end of the line. You and I are at the bottom of a pit with no ladder to climb out. Sooner or later one of us is going to consume the other in order to stay alive.

"There is also no telling how your work as Nigthwing will affect the trauma in your brain. Specific movements could trigger you. Maybe flickers of gunfire or flashbangs could send you into a fit. There are too many things that could prompt an episode and leave you at the mercy of gangsters. Or worse, strike you while you're in midair. And I didn't go through all this work just to have you die falling off a skyscraper Dick Grayson. There is more than just physical injuries that are keeping me from giving you the answer you want."

Dick purses his lips and stares at the lines in the drywall ceiling. "What, then? What am I going to do?"

Leslie softens. "The road ahead isn't going to be easy for you Dick, believe me, I've seen people from all walks of life, young, old, rich, poor end up in a situation like yours one way or another. It is never easy for anyone. But you have your family and you have Jason."

That brings some spark of bemusement to Dick's eyes. "Jason?"

"Of course," Leslie says and Jason is flinching before the words even leave her mouth. "You're his new permanent guardian after all."

* * *

The next week in the hospital is torture.

Bruce comes in the day after Dick first woke up. Cradles him in his arms and promises anything Dick needs into the shaved portion of his hairline. Dick sobs into his arms, weakly pawing at his back with his limp hands as he begs Bruce to do something do anything to fix what the explosion destroys.

"I'll try, I'll try," Bruce murmurs, dragging his hand through Dick's hair practically in the bed himself. "You know I will."

Jason watches from the doorway and hates Bruce so hotly when he leaves and the fucks off Earth on a mission with Hal Jordan that will take three weeks time. Leaving Jason to fill in the emotional gap he left behind.

The news about Dick's injuries and brush with death is finally broken to the Justice League Society and the Titans. Spreads like wildfire from there to any Bill and Sally that knows Dick Grayson is Nightwing before the entire world does. They flock to Dick's room with flowers and cards and everything he doesn’t want. The doctors say he's making remarkable progress but what kind of progress is it if he can never be him again? If he can't go through life without wondering whom in Gotham might be dying in a pool of their own blood while Dick sits in his apartment watching re-runs of Big Bang.

Leslie gives him numerous pamphlets with support group names, locations, and dates. He thanks her for them and then throws them away in the trash. He catches Jason fishing them out of the basket and the next time someone gives him a card he tears it into pieces. Jason tapes it together.

It infuriates him, Jason's permanent fixture in his life. Dick remembers the grief, then the anger, and now it seems like nothing but a vicious, black rage that threatens to devour him whenever he looks at Jason, dutifully moving around the room like a ghost.

The clothes he wears now don't fit him. He knows he does it more for Bruce's sake than his own. Omegas, particularly well to do omegas, could hardly be seen in biker leathers. The clothes he now wears are lighter in color and softer in touch. They often show off the long, slim contours of his neck and cling tightly to the curve of a waist Dick never knew Jason had. Evident by the continual, secretive stares Jason catches him doing.

Dick notices the way Jason avoids looking at himself in the mirror and sometimes, out of spite and pointless anger, purposefully makes Jason walk by them. It is something Dick can't help but see in the tense line of his shoulders when he nears every reflective surface despite being restrained to the bed.

Painkillers and medication make him irritable. He's never had great bedside manners, which comes as a revelation to no one.

"Since when are you so great at following orders," Dick says one day when he can no longer help himself. Jason's beat the curtains in the room at least three times but nothing settles the scratching under his skin. Ignores Dick for a few moments longer. Then when Dick opens his mouth Jason speaks.

"I have always been good at following orders. I only follow orders that are just."

Dick snorts from the bed. "You mean if you are agreeable to them you do them."

"I don't follow the law because it's the law. If the government is dictatorial than its people have the right to overthrow it."

"Are you calling Bruce a dictator?"

"I am not talking about Bruce," Jason says. Jason knows, deep down, that Bruce's no killing rule is more than just a moral standpoint that he refuses to cross. If Bruce actually became a killer than Gordon would have no choice but to arrest him. The Bats operate on a fine legal loophole that allows for citizens arrests. Jason has always known that. That Bruce didn't single-handedly decide one day that he wouldn't kill anyone. It has only been time and maturity that turned that legal loophole into an unbreakable code of Batman ethics.

Dick understands that. Has always bought into the whole Batman mythology long before Jason dreamed of anything besides being free from the crack of his father's belt. "Just because you don't agree with the rule doesn’t mean you get to choose when or when to not follow them."

"I never became what I am because I was obsessed with breaking rules, Dick. I took the mantle of the Red Hood to do what you and Bruce never could." Jason walks across the room. Most of the flowers around the bed, the older ones from Bruce, are curling up and dying. Jason dumps them in the trashcan in the hallway and leaves the decorative vases in a bag to take back to the apartment. There are dozens of new flower arrangements; Wally himself left four vases of bright yellow sunflowers, on the floor when the tables ran out of space. Jason places them around the headboard in the newly vacated space. Dick watches him carefully and takes his wrist with a surprisingly firm hand.

"To be a murderer," he says, eyes cold.

Jason sighs. He knows Dick is tired and still reeling from everything. Arguing with him now would be as good as picking on a homeless man. There is no use kicking a man that's already down. "I'm not debating this with you right now."

Dick purses his lips and glares at him, searching his face and then eventually, as all men's gazes do, it falls on his body. Jason expects it, but that doesn't halt the shiver that runs through him and makes him glance off to the side through clenched teeth. "Not what you expected in an omega am I?"

Dick's eyes narrow. "No, you’re not."

"Most omegas aren't," Jason says and pulls away, continuing in the small list of menial tasks Leslie had given him. "Porn tends to get our disposition wrong."

Dick makes a face but flushes red. "I don't watch omega porn."

And because two can be petty Jason presses. "Do you prefer a distinct line between your men and women rather than a being who is both?"

"I'm not talking about this with you," Dick settles back awkwardly in his bed as if he wishes it to swallow him whole. "I've never met an omega aside from those I bump into on the street and heard about in school before."

Dick is mostly a quiet patient. He sleeps more often than not, only waking to eat and to greet the guests that come to his room. Sometimes he watches the television and Jason can see the twitch in his fingers every time they mention a robbery, murder, kidnapping, or anything as small as the theft of a package from a mailbox. The way his gaze hardens and his mouth thins when the anchor shows photos of a young mother killed in a home invasion gone wrong. There are some recordings from the day in Cuba and Dick watches them over and over and over. Staring at the death toll and Jason has little doubt he's thinking about the lives of the gang members he'd restrained on the dock. Most had been blown away, crushed beneath piles of rubble or burned alive. Dick is lucky Clark had found him.

Jason, on the other hand, suffered more damage punching the wall of his old safe house.

The nights are the worst. Off the sedation Dick has nightmares. Powerful screaming fits that echo down the hall that brings nurses to his room at the sound of the erratic pulse of the heart monitor. Jason, despite how he feels about his current situation, feels for Dick. The pain that he must be going through reminds him of his green-tinged dreams filled with chaotic laughter and the tick of a countdown clock. It's been a long time since he's had pit nightmares, but one of the nights he goes home he dreams of drowning in an emerald sea. Wakes having soaked the bed with his sweat and rearranged the bed so he can sleep with his back against the wall, facing the door and steak knife in hand.

Jason also hates him. Hates that of all the Bats that could have been crippled it had to have been Dick. Hates that Dick does not look at him the same way the others do. Hates that Dick no longer tolerates him not because he is an omega. But because of something betrayal of faux-blood ties, the Wayne status gave them. It would be easier, Jason thinks, if Dick hated him because he was an omega. At least then the guilt that eats him alive steadily while watching Dick struggled to lift his right arm wouldn't hurt so badly.

"How did you go through life the way you are without anyone knowing," Dick asks once, half-asleep on pain medication. "I think I would have known if you really were."

"There are many ways that one can hide their status as an omega. You always assumed otherwise so you never saw what was right in front of you." Jason sits beside him in the chair he pulled him an hour ago. Because Bruce is not there, Jason stands guard while Dick struggles to fall asleep. Dick thrives on intimacy and physical touch and while Jason gives neither, his presence satisfies the need enough for the time being.

It's easier when Damian, as much of a sexist little shit he is, is allowed in. Jason, because he is Dick's omega, is permitted to be with him whenever he is inside the hospital to act as his nurse and caretaker. Damian, no matter how much he demands and begs, is ordered to wait for the small three-hour window for visitors. Even then he must wait in line behind the massive amount of people that flock to Dick's side. But when he is there Dick is happy. He climbs up into Dick's lap and tells him about school and for the few hours since waking from his coma Dick smiles, genuinely, and laughs loud and happy.

Dick frowns and closes his eyes. "I'd thought you'd be a lot more gentle if you were. You were kind of like that when you were younger."

"But now I am not."

Dick rests his head back against the pillows, the tight lines on his ashy face finally relaxing. "Now neither of us are I suppose."

* * *

Jason's days are monotonous and tedious. He goes home around ten pm at night, cooks a meal for himself on Dick's stove, showers in Dick's shower then goes to sleep in Dick's guest room. He's tried to break into Dick's personal cave once with equipment he'd fashioned from parts he'd bought at RadioShack. All it gets him is a blaring alarm that only shuts off when Jason starts yelling at the hidden camera to turn it off.

"If you try it again B said he's going to personally disconnect you from any computer in Gotham," Tim answers over the line. "I'd stop trying."

"That is why you will always be a Robin, T-bird. You have no ambition."

Jason disconnects and then, because he was irritated and not thinking, threw the device against the opposite wall. Cursed and cleaned up the bits then notice the hole it had put in the wall and moved one of the weight racks in front of it. The poorly attempted break-in is what makes Jason finally put his investigation of Eduardo and the False Face Society connection in the back of his mind. Prioritize. Dick would eventually return home and when his wounds weren't as painful he'd retreat his cave and then Jason would be able to access Bruce's ongoing case files. For now all Jason could do was resort to doing things the old-fashioned way. Keep his ear out for chatter amongst lower Gotham scum, visit old friends and keep some cash in the hands of loose-lipped con men.

He goes back to the hospital a little after nine am and helps Dick through various exercises. That is the part he hates the most. Dick might too. Dick, for being a lover of touch and affection is too much like Bruce when it comes to receiving aid for things he believes he can do flawlessly.

"Alright," the nurse says during an exceptionally rough day. "I want you to flex the toes on your left foot as much as you can while standing."

Jason has Dick's left arm around his shoulder and another around his waist. Still too feeble to do anything but lean against Jason, Dick struggles, red-faced to put more weight than he can handle on one foot. Sweat pours down the lines of his forehead, frustration evident in the scowl of his plush mouth.

"This is fucking pointless," Dick grits out. "I can wiggle my toes."

And Jason, because he has done nothing but sit and take care of Dick's decaying body for the last month retorts. "If that were true you'd be able to kick him with your left leg but you can barely piss without getting winded."

The punch Jason takes barely has Dick's full force behind it but it's enough to catch him off guard. He lets his hold on Dick slip just his body goes falling to the floor, unable to stand on even one foot without the assistance of another person. Dick whines and growls and curls up in a ball while the nurse rushes to his side and helps him up.

"Are you alright?" The nurse says anxiously while Dick clenches his teeth. "I'm fine, I'm,” he wheezes out, "fine."

Jason doesn't stick around. Leaves the room with a speed Barry would envy and storms down the hallway until he reaches the outdoor eating area. Digs his cartoon of cigarettes out of his back pocket, lights up and smokes it nearly all the way down to the filter on the first deep drag.

It's hot and busy at this time in Gotham. Heat baking off the sidewalk in visible waves, even the birds find it too painful to land on the cement and pluck around for crumbs for too long. He watches men in suits walk to their cars or call for a cab. Women in pencil skirts on the phone with investors or executives out in front of the business sector's skyscrapers. He catches the sight of one omega, and Jason can tell he is before he catches the decorative collar of ownership he wears, by the submissive downturn of his head. Similarly, by the way, he avoids eye contact with the women and men who walk by. It makes Jason sick.

"It must be hard." Someone says next to him.

"Hm?" Jason turns. It's an older woman with gray hair and a kind smile. She has an oxygen tank rolling around behind her, knitted shawl clasped tightly around the bony ridges of her shoulders. Jason flushes and quickly grinds out the cigarette on the iron railing of the eating area. "What do you mean?

"Your guardian," she says, "I know an omega when I see one. You're all so intense; I was always so envious of your kind growing up. Able to love and feel so passionately, your guardian is the boy in the ICU unit who flirts with the younger nurse isn't he?"

Jason frowns at the word guardian but has no reason to correct her. It's true after all isn't it? "Yeah."

She nods her head and looks at him, eyes cool and glistening with an edge of impassioned sympathy. "I know what it feels like, to have the one you care for in such a sorry state. My husband, rest his soul, was in hospice for the longest time. It was better for him, I think in the end, but it tore me apart watching him struggle to do things he never thought he'd one do never do. It must be harder for you two, being as young as you are. Listen, it's not much but there's a group of us that meet every week to talk and share our experiences. I think you and your guardian should go. It isn't much but I think it will help. Trauma and loss are such hard things to do on your own."

Jason completely disregards the information but smiles and asks her about her husband, a man named George who fought in the Korean War when he was barely 18 and had married her on the eve of his deployment. "I hated him, you know, always thought he was a no good, do nothing kind of man and then he shows up on my doorstep in the middle of the night and takes me out for one of the best nights of my life. The next morning he asks me to marry him because he's going to war and I told him if he died I'd tell all his nieces and nephews what a coward he was for going off and dying to avoid being married to me. He didn't die, of course, but I think sometimes he wished he did." She had a wheezing laugh and a charming smile. Giving Jason enough space while sitting close enough to him to show him the faded tattoos on her knuckles she'd given herself in an all women's boxing club.

Her name was plain, "Nancy if that tells you how imaginative my parents were," and grew up hearing the word no so often she called her self No-Nonsense Nancy. She'd marched in every march for every right, and would "continue to do so until the government put a bullet in her or God finally took away her ability to breathe." She doesn't ask about Jason or Dick for the matter, but accepts the small bits of information Jason tells her. About hiding his status about, for her sake at least, nearly dying then coming back to a family who had a new son reading his books.

By the time they finish talking the sun's long since set and moths and beetles flock around the streetlights. Jason offers her his arm and walks her through the hospital back to her room in the onsite care facility where she stays.

Jason is the one to ask for her number, in case he needs to remember the time for the meetings they both know he probably won't ever attend. "Of course, just be sure to ask for the chatty old bitch in room 102, they'll know where to direct you."

And Jason tucked her into bed because he wanted to even when she whined and complained. When Jason leaves and reaches the cafeteria for a bite and spots his face on a tabloid magazine that headlines with "JASON WAYNE SPOTTED IN GOTHAM HEIGHTS WITH SECRET MALE LOVER." He barely turns and heads towards Dick's room before hightailing it to Nancy and asking her to burn down the Gotham Gab tabloid media company with him.

* * *

Three days later Dick is given the all clear to be discharged from the hospital.

"Remember, it's going to be hard learning how to move around again so take breaks often and continue doing your exercises throughout the day. I'll need you to come in every so often at the start to make sure there is no lingering malignant brain damage but it should be all right. You passed the tests better than I would have hoped. You boys certainly inherited Bruce's ability to heal." The nurse hands Jason the long list of prescriptions to pick up from the pharmacy: antibiotics, painkillers, sedatives, nausea pills, laxatives, Antiom for seizures, and more. "The pharmacist will include a set of instructions for how to take them if you lose the first."

"We'll just have your omega help you into a wheelchair." Not Jason. Hasn’t been Jason for a while. Just "your omega," like Jason is a piece of furniture or something else that's to be owned, bought or sold.

Dick glares at the wheelchair. "I think I can walk out fine."

"Sit in the wheelchair Dick," Jason's own time in the hospital has made him angry and increasingly bitter. Even the short hour he spends at Nancy's bedside while Damian cuddles up with Dick has done little to ease the growing knot of tension between them.

Dick glares. "I can walk."

"No you can't get in or I'll carry you."

"Boys," the nurse says. They easily ignore her.

"You don't get to decide what I can and can't do," Dick growls.

Jason sneers. "Dick, _I will tie you to the chair_ , sit up for me."

Pain makes Dick irate and spiteful. Like a child lying down on the floor who wants a piece of candy when their parents say no. Jason doesn't have time for this. Doesn't want to spend a second longer in the hospital than he has to. So he leans across the bed and hoists Dick up by the arms and drags him off the bed despite his snarling complaints and sits him down in the chair.

"There, was that so hard?" And the scowl Dick gives him is nearly enough to make the entire last week worth the pain.

Waiting outside is the paparazzi. After unsuccessfully attempting to get a moment with Dick while in the hospital they circled the front of the hospital like vultures when the GCPD were too busy to chase them off. They snap their cameras and drown Dick with a flurry of questions. Dick’s cover story for his wounds was a vacation in Georgia that went tragically wrong. He's lucky to have made it out with his life.

"Dick, can you tell us about the extent of your injuries?" Vicki Vale nearly trips over her own heels trying to get close enough to stick her microphone in Dick's face.

"Dick we heard you've been made Jason's new legal guardian. Is there anything going on between the two of you?" Gordon Godfrey's smug smile can be seen even from here. Jason wants nothing more than to smack it right off his arrogant face. "Are you aware of his flighty romances that are now coming forward?"

"Do you expect to make it back into the competitive world of acrobatics after this injury Mr. Grayson?" Jack Ryder. Seems like all of Gotham's shit stirrers are out in full force.

They all shout a number of barbed questions meant to get a violent reaction. They prod at Dick's discomfort with his leg and the ugly stitching that will leave a permanent scar to his hairline. Dick ignores them as best he can but that is a lot to ask for from a man who is already on the brink of a nervous breakdown.

"Take me home Jay," Dick glares at the crowd. "Get me the fuck out of here."

And Jason does.

* * *

To say Dick doesn't handle the clean apartment well is an understatement so vastly inappropriate Jason's seen radical Christian mothers react to the word "hell" with more tact.

"What the hell have you done?" Jason can imagine a lot of reactions to his sudden Alfred level cleaning of the house, but this, for the first time in his life, is not what he expected.

"I cleaned," Jason says,

"Why would you do that?"

"Because it was messy," Jason says slowly. "For fuck's sake Dick I've heard better thanks from Luthor."

"That's because it's not a thank you!" Dick pushes himself further into the living room. "Where did you put all my stuff?"

"In the dressers where they belong," Jason doesn't understand why Dick is so upset with an uncluttered apartment. But the bland look of confusion on his face seems to insult Dick even more.

"You can't just go through people's things without their permission! You can't just insert yourself into my life without my permission! This is _my_ home, Jason!" Dick shouts, hands slapping against the meat of his chest. "You can't just do what you want with my things!"

Jason doesn't bother explaining that he himself was never asked how he felt before he was forced to move in with Dick. Before his life became a media headline for third-rate con artists masquerading as "journalists" for money. Didn't ask for the world to be aware of him in a way he never wanted them to. Jason was on the front of a cover a magazine selling clothes. Want what Jason Wayne is wearing? Get it here now!

He never asked for that. He's never wanted that kind of life. And now he has it and Dick is getting violent because he put his clothes away. Jason nods and walks over to the dresser in Dick's room. Dick wheels after him, pink fury still on his cheeks. Jason pulls out each drawer, gathering up all the washed and cleaned clothes he had organized weeks ago and dumps them onto the floor.

"There," Jason says. "Back to normal."

Dick stares at him, mouth open and stupidly blinks up at him with the wide eyes of an owl. Then he straightens up, impassively cold, tilting his chin high and gripping the edges of his chair. "Clean that up. Then make dinner, we'll talk about rules after."

Then he leaves and Jason can do nothing else but to pick up the clothes and refold them properly with black rage biting at the back of his mind. He makes a simple meal of Parmesan chicken for dinner, while Dick stews on the balcony staring out at the Blüdhaven smog, illuminated by the neon of its towering casinos. When Jason plates the food and hands it to him, Dick takes it and barricades himself in his own bedroom for the rest of the night. Jason doesn't miss his company.

He washes the pans and plates and showers the rest of the hospital stink off him in his own room. He goes to sleep with the steak knife on the side of his pillow and his front towards the door. He finds out quickly during the first night that keeping the door locked like he was able to do while Dick was in the hospital will be an impossibility. Dick nearly knocks down the door before he picks the lock while grumbling out his irritation.

"I can't sleep, Dick says. His eyes are bloodshot and there's a tremor in his voice that means he's been kept awake by nightmares. "Make breakfast and then we go over rules."

Jason was half-tempted to just pour bowls of milk less cereal out of spite, but his stomach growled unhappily and his mouth was already salivating at the fleeting thought of eggs. He made scrambled eggs with fresh cheese and spinach, handing one plate to Dick and tucking the other one his lap to eat on the couch.

"Rule number one," Dick says, mouth-half stuffed with warm eggs. "You are not allowed to just organize and spring clean the apartment in any way you want. I have places where things go and a way that I like my living space. You do not get to mess with it."

Which means, I like to live in squalor and I don’t care if a dirty house makes you uncomfortable. Jason forces another bite into his mouth if only so he doesn't bite back a harsh response that will get them both arguing before six am.

"Next, because I'm your guardian, you will tell me when you leave and where you'll be going so I can keep an eye on you."

"Ah," Jason says. "So that's how it is. You don't have freedom anymore so you're going to take away mine." Eye for an eye. Dick can be an extremely petty person. That doesn't surprise him as much as he thought it would. He's been waiting for the ball to drop ever since they came home the night before.

Dick narrows his eyes. "As much as you'd like to think so, this is not all about you."

Jason closes his mouth. He turns back to the fluffy yellow bits of egg and stabs a pile with the pronged end of his fork. "You cannot dictate when I leave or not."

"If you leave without telling me I'll have Tim or Barbara locate you for me and bring you home, don't think I won't." Dick pushes around the eggs on his plate, not yet having taken a bite.

"You have no reason to do this to me," Jason says softly. "So why are you doing it? What does it matter to you where I go and what I do?"

"As much as it may not bother you, I have a lot of things I do that I take pride in. One of them is being as good as I can possibly be. Now how can I do that when you choose to go out in public like it doesn't affect you? Being an omega, being a son of Bruce Wayne means your status matters. Your body is now public property. Whatever you do will make headlines. "

Dick is quiet before he continues. "Bruce told me you were off vigilante work. I am too. We better get used to living together, peacefully, and setting a good example where Bruce and the others cannot."

"You mean showing how much of a pair of hypocrites we are," Jason growls and turns away. "This is a punishment for disobeying his rules. Don't pretend like he's doing either of us a favor."

"Well, it doesn't matter because you don't have a say." Dick is quiet and looks out the window. The lines of his legs twitch slightly. "And neither do I."

* * *

He can't stand being inside. The apartment is too small for Jason let alone the both of them. He vacuums the floor and dusts every nook three times over. Finally makes use of the weight room until his arms burn and his legs wobble. When that doesn't get rid of the anxious crawling feeling--like insects in his blood--he starts practicing wall runs in the living room. It takes four hours for Dick to become fed up with Jason's pacing and order him out. "I want you to go to the manor and pick up things from Tim for me."

Jason can think of a hundred things he'd rather do. "I can drive you."

Dick makes a face, no wonder thinking about the long slow, crawl up the stairs and the elevator with Jason being forced to carry him all because Dick didn't want to relocate to another part of Gotham. "I need the time to myself and you want to get out of the house. I think that's fair."

Jason closes his mouth and nods. There is nothing else for him to do than say yes. "Alright."

Dick looks at him quietly. "You should only be gone around an hour or so and when you come back we need to run through more walking exercises."

"Alright."

Dick glares at him. "Is that all you can say?"

Jason doesn't respond and Dick stares at him for a long time before he waves his hand. "I'll see you later."

And he goes, quickly.

* * *

After Jason is gone for ten minutes Dick rolls himself over to the counter. It's a firm, solid marble and it's cool to the touch of his fingers. Dick slides his hand along the countertop and rests them steadily on the edge before he pulls himself up. Actually more like tries to.

There's an abrupt strain in his muscles that winds him. Pain from disuse and lying in bed recovering for so long, that's all. Nothing he hasn't dealt with before. He pushes himself up then eases himself down through gritted teeth and closes his eyes. Focuses then hoists himself up again. For a moment it’s as if nothing changed, that it's just another building ledge that Dick is hauling himself up on to. Then his right arm shudders, and suddenly his left arm is left taking the entire weight of his body. Dick collapses back into the wheelchair. Snarling he wheels himself forward drags the edge and tries to pull himself up again. Neglect has left his strength thin and muscles weak not injury. He's fine. He just needs to start small. That's it.

Dick shoves himself away from the counter and turns perpendicular. Grips it with his left hand and slowly raises himself up onto his right foot. He goes a little easier but it takes a few moments to stand fully. His left foot lifted in the air above him. His left leg, Dick hasn't really looked at since he left the hospital. He does so now.

It's wrapped in gauze but Dick can see the indent where the calf muscle is gone, the stitching of the healing scabs from the skin grafts they'd taken from the same leg. He eases his leg down and tries to take some of the weight. It's like trying to balance a book on a paper clip. The intensity of the sting makes his vision white out. Then sends him buckling to the floor. Dick lies there for a second, winded and sparking with pain.

He rolls himself onto his back and stares up at the ceiling in disbelief.

Before he knows it his face is wet. Then his chest is shuddering with great, big sobbing hiccups as he reaches up and up towards something, anything.

It doesn't work. No matter what he seems to do the sky has, for once in his life, never been so impossibly far away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry there will be a happy ending for the boys after all of this. I can't personally handle so much sad without a satisfying resolution. Remember that both Dick and Jason are emotionally in a bad spot right now so they are a bit of an unreliable narrator when it comes to assuming the thoughts and emotions of others.
> 
> Again thank you so much for all the comments, I read each and every one.


	4. Misinformed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments and for reading!

The car Jason drove Dick home with is a six-year-old sedan. Bright white scraps from the jagged edges of a key run up and down along the sides of the car. Dick had bought it off the Internet from a man that was selling it for pennies after his ex used it as a punching bag. Total surprise, he said, she found out he was cheating and went all "psycho bitch." It's nothing more than a cover car for his early days in the Blüdhaven Police academy. Dick preferred motorcycles. Another thing they had in common.

The seats are made from of tan fabric, stained from spilled coffee and ketchup years old. A few wrappers from Big Belly Burger litter the passenger seat floor. Jason barely had time to clean out the car before using it to fetch Dick from the hospital. Kind of regrets it the second he starts the engine and the musty smell of old cooking oil and soggy French fries wafts among the seats.

_Honestly, Dick, you live like this?_

Gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white Jason leaves the apartment parking lot. Dick gave him an hour or "so." Plenty of time to get Dick's things from Tim and pick around some of his old haunts in Gotham. Better start putting some contact lines out now while he can. He's already spent way too long sitting on his ass doing nothing.

_No use feeling sorry for yourself, Jason. You have to find out where the leak came from._

He'll have to somehow get in contact with Talia somehow. While the possibility that Talia told someone else about his status, it's too rash a move for a woman as intelligent as Ra's favored daughter. She'd done everything and beyond to keep his biological status a secret from even the most trusted members of her own order. She'd sooner threaten him by going to Ra's than just tell someone behind his back.

Bruce is already off the list of potential suspects, and that leaves Jason with a handful of people he doesn't really want to face after this. None of which, with their "goody-two-shoes" demeanor would turn traitor to him.

The Wayne Manor sits with the same condescending ambiance of a Catholic Church gargoyle. Staring down at Jason as he makes his way up the hill. Even though Bruce's is a dozen light years away in space, that doesn't stop his eyes from flicking up to the top floor windows. Sees the after-image of a pointed-eared, shadowy figure before it sharpens and the image melts away.

Among the dozens and dozens of reasons Jason never returned to the manor that had to be one of the largest.

The grounds are freshly groomed. The bushes have distinctive shapes, branches cut cleanly at the edge into sharp and dramatic lines. The lawn has been mowed and the flowerbeds are a rich, dark brown from the recently packed soil. Could be the image on a postcard. Upper-class Gotham Living, featuring Wayne Manor. Includes a tour around the grounds and a performance on how Bruce backstabs anyone who tries to get close to him. Buy now for 3.99.

He parks right out front, next to the ornamental fountain in the middle of the driveway loop around. Doesn't bother locking it; too busy weighing the idea of whether or not he should just break in through one of the upper windows to avoid having to talk with anyone. Seeing Alfred's faux cheer is already turning his stomach and arguing with Damian--because there's nowhere else Damian would be if he can't tuck himself against Dick's side like a separation anxiety-ridden puppy dog--is so incredibly unappealing.

The grand front doors creak open before Jason can survey the large vines looping around the entryway to the manor. Jack-and-the-beanstalk his way up, now that would be something to see. Can almost hear Roy laughing at him when he, inevitably, falls on his ass. Jason's good at a lot of things. Horticulture? Eh, well, he got an A in theory. _No wonder Ivy can't stand humanity when people like him exist._

Tim leans against the doorway, mouth set in a tight line. Looks about as threatening as a Pomeranian in a pink little bow tie, dressed in a way too expensive, black Armani suit. "Don't even think about it. You're too heavy, they'd barely be able to hold your weight."

"I wasn't going to do it," he was so going to do it. "Just admiring the whole, gardening work. Your idea or something Lucius pitched to you? New idea for the house, artistic vine design."

Tim raises a brow. Okay, Jason can't really think of a way to accurately say that he totally wasn't planning on sneaking into the house. Sue him. It's not like he's the only one guilty of doing that.

_But they aren't omegas._

"You're unusually chipper," Tim says.

"That's just my amazing personality. Am I not allowed to be like that? Is that Dick's forte while I'm "cosmic mistake that makes too many jokes about being dead." That comes out a little too hard and defensive. Tim narrows his eyes and Jason fidgets uncomfortably under his glare.

"I saw you coming up before you even made it to the front gate. Don't you remember the oaks along the road here have cameras or has being in a hospital really made you lax?" Tim smiles slightly, this awkward and hesitant thing. The tightness in Jason's shoulders whooshes out instantly. Tim pushes the door open wider. "Come on, I have his things right here."

Dick's things happen to be several boxes stacked high with different pieces of electrical equipment. Computers memory drives, laptops, a few of Bruce’s own patented Bat-devices. Most of it is monitoring equipment Jason's seen once before in Babs' clock tower. At least before she retired the Oracle mantle. Never knew what happened to all that stuff. Thought it might have stayed there, gathering dust. But Bruce loves to recycle and re-use equipment as much as he does orphans.

There are a few non-standard "Bat" items that Jason immediately identifies as Dick's personal belongings. A few posters from late 90's bands, a photo album absolutely drenched in red and green glitter, some older clothes that are appalling to anyone with two, functioning eyes. Yup, it's Dick's alright.

"I have something else," Tim starts. He worries his bottom lip between two of his canines, the most easily identifiable sign of distress. Jason's not going to like whatever's next. This is great. Jason hasn't really gotten along with Tim. Ever since the whole, infiltrating Titans HQ and the "beat you until there's nothing left of you that isn't black and blue" things had been tense. No idea why. What's a little beating to death between friends? That's, at least, what the Joker said.

Jason shudders. "Alright, out with it, Tim."

Tim opens his mouth, closes it then heaves a sigh. "Wayne Enterprises has to host the annual Summer Gala."

Jason remembers that. Bunch of rich white men and women rubbing elbows with half of Gotham's mafia under the guise of a celebration of business excellence in arts and technology. Had to attend it once during his first year as Jason Todd ward of Bruce Wayne. Cheeks a tomato red by the end of the evening from all the pinches he received. "Don't see what that has to do with me."

"Well, it has everything to do with you," Tim says. "Ever since Bruce," Tim fumbles with the word in his mouth before finally spitting out, "exposed you on television there have been numerous inquiries to speak with you. Normally, we don't have to attend the function. It's mostly an old money event, but they all want to talk to the lost omega."

And if that doesn't just sum up Gotham Jason doesn't know what will. The men and women of high Gotham always made fun of Bruce when they thought he wasn't listening. _I didn't know you were such a charity worker, Brucie, taking in a poor kid like Mr. Todd. What are you going to do when he steals all your possessions and sells them for drugs, Brucie? You have such a big heart, Brucie. Fuck me would you?_ Now he was an omega and suddenly, like a dropped bill on the ground, they were crowding him. Eager to ogle and awe what they, themselves, did not have.

"I'm not going."

Tim's shoulders slump and he finally, if only slightly, relaxes. That must say a lot about their relationship. That fighting and arguing are normal and calming, where acting like civilized humans do not. That's Bat School 101 for you. Emotional constipation is a rare and exceptional art.

"You have to. Bruce is gone and you there will be enough of a distraction to stop people from poking holes in our story. They already want to know where you went. Wouldn't you rather talk to them here rather than having them harass you on the street?"

"I'd rather not talk to them at all," Jason grits out. He was already wearing this mockery of Omegan fashion. With its pastels and low scoop necks, half of his body is on display at all times. The scar around his neck from Bruce's Batarang is a pale strip of knotted flesh that stands out against tan skin. The only indignity he had been spared was not being required to wear a collar. Doesn't even want to entertain the idea of wearing a studded collar with diamonds and jewels, Wayne engraved on the side. _But you belong to Dick so it'd read Grayson, wouldn't it?_

"They're going to talk to you one way or another," eyes fixed on Jason's face with a mixture of pity and sadness. "Wouldn't it be better to get it over with now?" Jason clenches his hands at his side and tries not to slam his bare fists into the wall.

Keyword there is _tries_.

"Jason," Tim says, exasperated. Jason doesn't really listen, blood pounding in his ears. Slams his hand into the wall, then does it again, and again. The stitches haven't been taken out yet since his experience with the wall in the old safe house. Pain lanced up his arm with a fire-burning intensity and Jason clamps down hard on his tongue and continues to slam his fist against the wall. At least that's until Tim places a hand on his shoulder, and within the span of a second, is grappling his head with his thighs, dragging him down to the ground.

"Get off of me," Jason snarls. Tim only sits down harder on his back.

"Not until you've calmed down," Tim's grip on his arms is vice-tight, uncompromising and uncomfortable. Since when did Tim get so much stronger? Jason struggles and struggles some more until he finally has to relax his shoulders and huff into the carpet. Embarrassment stings hotly on the tops of his cheeks and he rests his chin against the welcoming mat and hopes against hope that no one else decides to drop in. Cass, Stephanie, the pizza man.

After a moment of wishing he could just sink into the carpet, Tim eases his grip and pulls him up. Takes Jason's hands--ignoring Jason's very loud groan--to survey the damage. There's no blood, yet at least, but it feels bruised. A few of the stitches strain against the skin but held under the abuse. Either way, Tim lets his hands go and rubs his temples.

"I get it," Tim says.

"No, you don't."

Tim watches him with tired eyes and then he sighs. "You're absolutely right."

Jason closes his mouth. Tim waits for a rebuttal when none comes he continues. "I have an idea," he amends. "When Damian was made Robin I felt betrayed. They had taken everything that I was and just, given it to someone else. Where did that leave me? No name and no place in the family. How could they just let him have what I had worked so hard for? I didn’t die, like you. I wasn’t fired like Dick. Bruce had his blood son and then there was me."

"Cue the violins," Jason spits. "Welcome to the real world kiddo. People suck and you can't depend on anyone. I've already been through this whole thing when Bruce replaced me with you. What has Bruce done to me now? Your situation is a pitiful excuse to pretend like you care."

Tim studies him carefully. Jason shifts his weight on his feet and glances down at the floor. He says it's because he can't look at Tim's stupid doe-eyed look anymore. The same way he couldn't stand his face in the photos Talia showed him. Memorized every detail of Drake's face, from the little curve of his nose and the baby-fat in his cheeks that stubbornly stayed through puberty.

Tim speaks again. "Within the course of a month, you have lost everything that you took for yourself. That space you carved out in Gotham, whether we like it or not, was yours. Now it’s gone. When Bruce told me what he'd done I was disgusted. That's not how we do things."

"And yet you're standing by his decision to keep me out of this." Jason tilts his head. "That says a lot more about you than it does Bruce."

"Bruce has always operated in black and white," Tim says. "You know it, I know it. I was more surprised that you hadn't just disappeared off the grid the moment he did that to you. Bruce can say what he wants, but in the end, you stayed in Gotham. Took care of Dick while he was in a coma and now you've moved in with him, running his errands."

For one, blistering second, the world disappears in a haze of furious red. When it clears Jason has Tim pinned against the door by the throat. Hands wrapped tightly around his perfectly pale neck. It would be so easy to snap it. A month of disregard and injustice, _humiliated_ by being made the property of a man he never really liked.

"Are you saying that being compliant is my fault?" Tim refuses to move. Tilts his head up and swallows, throat pressing out against the cruel press of Jason's thumb.

"No," he says. "No, Jason. What I'm saying is you have the means to make Bruce, Dick, and everyone's life here a living hell by disappearing. There would be interviews, police involvement, mountains of paperwork, someone would find out about our "night jobs" eventually. You have the power to do that. I expected you to after what Bruce has done. And you haven’t. Why?"

Tim _expected_ Jason to reveal Bruce's identity. Expected him to go behind their backs and risk everything for what Bruce had done. It's what any emotional and angry omega would have done. Why would Tim think any different? Tim probably created a list of fail-safes to preserve their identities after he learned what happened. They couldn't trust him not to go behind their backs anyway, why wouldn't they believe he'd throw a tantrum.

Jason shakes his head. Negativity and depressive thoughts were as commonplace in Jason's mind growing up, crime was an old hat to his father. There had been a short time in his life when he did not assume the worst of people and the world as a whole. The few years he was Robin before his death. The memories are tainted by Bruce's actions and he wonders, holding Tim by the throat if Bruce had always expected him to one-day act out so maliciously he'd write Jason's behavior off as omega hysteria. A walking little time bomb that smells nice and once a month opens their legs like they need it to live. It's disquieting and Jason shoves Tim away from the wall--and _himself_ \--so he can place his hands on the wall to steady the shakes that wrack his body.

Tim's face falls. "That was inappropriate of me to say, Jason. I'm...I'm sorry."

This is getting a little too weird. Jason stands in the doorway, looking around the dark hallway behind Tim and grabs the first box. "Yeah, okay whatever. I'll just get these things and I'll be out of your hair."

"Wait," Tim says. "I," Tim presses his fingers against his forehead and takes a deep breath. "If you were really the man I thought you once were you would have done a lot of things while Bruce was away and Dick was lying in a coma. You didn't. I'm...I'm impressed by the restraint and goodwill you have shown us."

"Thanks," Jason says, blandly. "I didn't do it for you."

_I didn't do it for Bruce._

"I know, but please, come to the Gala? Even if you don't want to go, Dick will be expected and it would be nice if he didn't have to field all the questions by himself."

Because it was all about Dick. Then again Jason hadn't been the one horrendously maimed in the warehouse explosion while Dick was. Jason shrugs and nods his head. "Sure, whatever. We'll be there."

Tim nods. "Thank you."

Tim reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket with a frown on his face. "I'm putting a lot of trust in you here, that you won't do anything, you know, stupid with this."

Tim holds it out. In the palm of his hand is the dagger Talia had given him. The alligator scale scabbard glistens under the hot Gotham sun, almost holographic with its muted shine. Jason glances down at the Kris and back to Tim. "I know Alfred's already given you a lot of your things, well what he could afford to give you. I don't want Damian going through your stuff in the attic because he's a nosy little shit and finding his mother's weapons. You understand."

 _I'm being nice to you; don't let this blow back in my face._ Jason takes it, the familiar weight settling into the palm of his hand. He closes his eyes and tightens his fingers around the curved blade and feels, almost instantly, a little better than he did.

"I still have explicit orders to stop you if I catch you performing vigilante work. Which I will follow with extreme prejudice."

Jason believes that, but he holds the Kris in his hand turning it over and slides it into the back of his pants. "Why are you doing this?"

Tim looks at him carefully. "It's not out of some sense of pity if you think so. I've been suggesting to Bruce for months that we find a way to take you off duty. You were always too violent, too quick to anger, and there was no telling how and for what amount of time the Lazarus Pit could be affecting you. Dick had brought up the same concerns with Bruce and he disregarded them. What Bruce is doing now, outing you to the public, completely taking away everything that you own and making you dependent upon Dick and he on you, that's not right. Bruce," Tim weighs the words in his mouth. "Bruce is highly emotional. No matter what he says about being in control of it everyone knows he isn't. The deaths in Cuba, Dick's mutilation, not being able to see you while Clark, his best friend, questioned him on keeping your status a secret was it. He had to regain control over the situation, protect you and Dick in what would have been the best method outside of a jail cell."

Jason knows this. Knows that Bruce when is confronted with seemingly impossible odds he tends to act irrationally. Jason had grown up with Bruce. He knew this was all possible. It still hurts. That in the end, as it always is, his fate came down to Bruce's own paranoia. That if he didn't take extreme measures he would lose everything the same way he did his parents.

It would be better if he never met Bruce at all. Jason can hardly stand to look at himself in the mirror too long. With the pastel colors that coat his form and the tight waist cinching shirts that show off the curves he had always been so desperate to hide. It would be so much easier if he weren’t an omega.

"Yeah," Jason says. "Yeah." He can appreciate Tim’s honesty. It's refreshing to hear after all the bullshit and lies over the past several days. "Thanks."

"I'll help you load up the car. If we wait around any longer Damian's certain to come running," Tim's brows pinch together like he's eaten something sour. "If it's alright with you I'd rather not have to deal with two shitheads in one day."

It's nice, Jason thinks that despite the disagreements and their fighting that Tim is so calm. He's obsessive--Jason remembers the photographs and hero-worship of Tim's early years--and, like every Bat, as a proclivity of reacting overly emotional to what normal people solve in therapy. But he, above all else, is coolly intelligent, more so than Bruce. Jason appreciates that at his core, Tim is like Spock, driven by logic to a point. Doubts he'll feel the same Tim locks him out the next time he tries to break into the Bat computer's mainframe.

That is why he's always had to depend on himself first.

* * *

There are a quite a few men Jason knows that have spent their life trying to get revenge on Batman in any way they could. Scratch that, probably half of Gotham hates him with the same fervor the other revers him. A few of these men--specifically those with no prospects and barely enough patience to wait for an ATM to give them cash--Jason considers far more dangerous than Dent or Cobblepot. Bruce's rivals liked the dramatic the same way theater majors adored over-acting. These men, however, had a gun and a grudge and took out their hatred on the city in plans doomed to fail. Inevitably, taking dozens of lives with them. That was until Jason offered them a loophole. Protection from the Bat for a little information and, of course, money.

One of the men is a guy called Henry Thomas. An alias, no one knows his real name, not even Henry. Knocked into a coma after being caught up in a factory explosion the Nygma caused years ago. Made his buck selling weed on the streets before a few of the bigger gangs started pushing in the area. Didn't want to work with no costumed freaks, but Warren White didn't wear a costume. Had been a lieutenant for the Great White Shark's gang long before the False Face Society absorbed them before Roman was sentenced to Blackgate. If anyone knew why the False Face Society was making friends with the Penitente Cartel and blowing up Bane's ammunition it would be Henry.

That's where the ease of Jason's plan goes out the window. Jason is wearing the clothes of a well-to-do omega. The price tag on the pants Alfred brought him read five hundred dollars. His shirt is brand name and it sticks out amongst the grays and blacks of East End. Unless he wants someone to hassle him for a hand out--or worse follow him home--he'll have to dress down. Unfortunately going back to the apartment to change means running afoul of Dick and whatever black mood he's been steadily brewing in all day.

Which leaves him with doing a very weird thing. Normally, he bursts into Henry's duplex in lower Gotham when he knows he'll be home. It’s been a few months but it's safe to assume that he's probably still the kind of guy that comes in around four after a job. Passes out on the couch with a beer in his hand and some porn--always tasteless--blasting on the television. Another issue, it's not four in the morning. There is little doubt that Dick will one, not notice him sneaking out through the door. Secondly, Tim might show up, or worse one of the girls or Damian appearing and starting shit.

Not great odds. Luckily, creativity and common sense are skills Jason possesses.

All it takes is making a short little detour to the first gas station he finds. Takes one of Dick's Blüdhaven Police Academy sweatshirts from the back that stinks of months old sweat and throws it on. God, Dick might be a handsome looking guy but he sure as fuck smells as bad as a wrestler's gym shorts. At least it disguises his naturally sweet scent.

The gas station is empty, a lone janitor moving up and down the aisle with headphones shoved into their ears. The cashier is too busy watching the game on the cracked television in the far corner. None of them give Jason, hoodie up head down, a second glance. Most Gothamites are as comfortable with crime as they are a bunch of people running around in brightly colored underwear Jason finds the coldest box of beer from the back fridge aisle and pays for it. The cashier doesn't ask for ID, too engrossed in the football match between Gotham University and SCU.

Good. Hard to ignore the fact that Jason has yet to receive any actual identification or driver's license. If, of course, Dick even lets him get it.

Jason digs his nails into the palm of his hand. He needs to stop. This line of thinking makes his heart clench uncomfortably in his chest. Stomach rolling a little too violently, it makes it all the harder to choke back rising nausea. Dick has never displayed signs of being overtly sexist. Had always adored Barbara, Kori, Raven, and Donna before the meeting others. But he had never spoken out against the treatment of omegas either. That with his sudden mutilation and, well, babysitting duty, there might be a little more resentment.

He turns away. Nearby on a shelf rack with assorted candies, breath mints and miniature cans of pepper spray is Cosmopolitan Magazine. A smiling, whitewashed celebrity omega he knows of in passing--he supposes that's what he is now--winking at the camera. _Positions to try for you and your mate! 69 different lifestyle choices to be the best omega you can be. New fashion trends for fall._

"Here," the cashier drops the change on the counter, eyes not leaving the television. Jason doesn't thank him, grabbing the beers and leaving the change. Gripping the plastic rings of the beers so tightly it indentations into his palms.

That is all he is; a fashion trend. A showpiece. It was what he had been as a child; a poor, disadvantaged charity case. Like a rescue dog whose owners love to recite his tragic backstory. Was he any different now? Jason Todd, omega we saved from insert whatever bullshit story Bruce will tell Jack Ryder, Vicki Vale, or Lois Lane.

His eyes burn. Fuck. Jason presses his heels against his eyelids and furiously blinks away the gathering tears. Why does he have to be such a crybaby? Everything gets tears. Bruce replaces him? Tears. Bruce forces you to be Dick's caretaker? Waterworks. It's embarrassing. It's humiliating. He'd blame it on his omega genes, making him hormonal at the drop of a hat. Jason knows better.

You didn't go back to being a vigilante just because you were angry at what one man had done. You didn't start killing people because you thought it was easier.

Taking a shaking breath in Jason leans further back in the car. Composes himself and reassesses his objectives. Contact Henry, get home, find out why the Penitente Cartel and False Face Society made a pact to stop Bane's uprising.

 _"I wonder, if you survive this, how if they will blame you for it.”_ Jason was a patsy. He just needs to find out how they knew he'd be there.

Using the back of the receipt Jason writes down a location and time for Henry. Tucks it under one of the cans' tabs so he won't ignore it. Drives further into East End, appreciating the absolute shit-state of Dick's car--because no one will mess with it when the going price for a car's tires this bad is in pennies. Parks it outside of a duplex half fallen into disrepair from failed upkeep of bills and jimmies the lock without so much as a creak.

The house, just as Jason remembered, is shit. A ratty couch faces an old, wall mounted television set. There's a desk in the far corner with a ten-year-old desktop computer, a kitchenette on the left end of the main room and two separate bedrooms. One filled with gym equipment and some guns, the other with a bed and a crack pipe. Peeking around Henry's desk and drawers provide little information or anything that would help Jason figure out what the Society is up to. Henry's jackets are hung neatly in the entry closet and the leather mask--out of the two he wears--sits on the table. It's obscene, oozing the sort of unapologetically BDSM vibes Roman worships and stares up at him with meshed eyes.

Jason stares at it then stuffs it into the pocket of his sweatshirt. If Henry doesn't have any useful information he'll have to do it himself. Be prepared and all that jazz. Better not to give the tabloids any more gossip fuel by having them catch him visiting a sex shop. He can see it now. _Jason Wayne Part of Underground Sex Society more on page 23!_

Leaves the beers in the busted fridge and gets back out onto the road in less than a few minutes. The check engine light flashes it draws his eyes for a moment before they focus on the dashboard clock. He's been out for about an hour and a half. Shit.

* * *

"I said an hour," Dick says when Jason walks in the door.

He can barely see around the box stuffed with Dick's new equipment. Nearly knocked over three old ladies on the way up--that's got to be a record somewhere. How many old ladies can you drive off the road? On a good day, I can manage five. They call me Nana-Knockout. He can tell Dick is furious by the timber of his voice. When he puts the box down Dick is glaring at him, eyes as hot as coals.

Now the best way to approach an irate Dick would be to placate. Show off your belly; maybe throw in a few of those doe-eyed, puppy-dog looks just to seal the deal. Worked like a charm when he was fourteen, might still do the trick now over one hundred pounds heavier.

But Jason's used up his daily reserves of fucks to give. So instead he opts for total smartass. "You said an hour or so. So I was back around an hour."

Dick's glare shifts into an outright glower. Jaw clenching so hard you could probably see the teeth-grinding flat. "Tim called me about forty minutes ago. You should have been back twenty minutes after he called. You weren't, where did you go?"

Jason frowns. Dick was hardly that kind of controlling asshole that he's making himself out to be right now. That's always been more of Bruce's forte. See above, taking all of Jason's belongings and then absconding into space. One of the reasons Dick fully remains separate from Bruce refuses to live in the manor for longer than a day. Both know Bruce is as protective of his rules like a dragon over a golden horde. Dick had always tried to be better than that.

Tried, past tense. Not so much "trying" to do that anymore.

"There were a lot of red lights," Jason starts unpacking the box. He takes a few of Dick's clothes out immediately. Leaves the electronics inside. "I have to go back downstairs to get more of the boxes."

"That can wait," Dick continues. "We need to resolve this now."

Here it comes. Jason is already rolling his eyes. "I thought we went over this already."

Dick wheels himself forward. Stares up at Jason before his gaze falls, and immediately locks on with a trained, observational eye, to Jason's knuckles. "What did you do to your stitches?"

"A wall."

"You're not Red Hood anymore. You're off-duty, you can't just sneak off and fight crime." 

"I don't have to answer to you."

"You do."

"I _don't,_ " Jason growls. "You are _not_ my guardian. This situation we're in? This is Bruce bullshitting his way into thinking he's doing right by either of us. I don't like you. You don't like me. Let's not pretend that we care about one another when you barely afforded me the decency years ago."

Which is kind of bullshit? Jason knows that Dick attempted to be civil, once he got over the rage at having his _own name stolen,_ but the hatred for Bruce's decision colored their every interaction. Just stopping by for dinner Al is that little shit still around or has B finally realized there's no one that can replace me?

Doesn't say anything though, with the anger growing behind his increasingly short movements. Wishes Dick would just leave and do whatever it is he does during recovery. Watch Price is Right, read on his phone, or watch porn. Leaves Jason taking his anger out by aggressively re-folding clothes. Right sleeve. Left sleeve. Fold in half you shirt scum.

But Dick stays right there. Eyeing him with the intensity of a man in front of a burger after a week with only a spinach leaf as sustenance. Ignoring him is well, a challenge. Even mute Dick Grayson is, as always, an attention-grabbing spectacle. Fueled his narcissism throughout the early years. Toddling about Gotham Academy with that impervious, confident knowing that he was the boy wonder all the girls and boys dreamed of.

Nevertheless, Jason nearly succeeds in blocking him out entirely.

Nearly. Until Dick decides he needs to talk again.

"I never understood why Bruce let you do anything you wanted," Dick says. The fury has faded somewhat. It remains there, blistering in Dick's eyes like a smarting ember. "I thought when he had made you Robin it was because of nostalgia. That he wanted a partner that would look up at him like the sun shone out of his ass."

Dick tightens his hands around the curve of the armrests, mouth tense. Glances up at Jason studying his face like he's trying to count every individual, faded freckle. Then his gaze drops down. Rakes over Jason's shoulders, curves at the edge of his waist and finally follows the thick lines of his thighs down to the floor. Less construction worker lecherous and more lion eyeing a sick antelope. Jason shifts. Dick snaps his eyes back up.

"With me, he'd always been more of a brother than a father. We went through the same things, he was extremely young and I was younger. He did things with me that I would never do with a child. Bruce trained among children himself. Kirigi, one of his mentors, taught one as young as four. What difference did it make if I was ten? Bruce had come from a world where age didn't matter, only justice. I was a tool just like he was."

Dick falls quiet. He loosens his grip on the armrests. The lines in his face go lax and his shoulders droop against the back of the chair. "He was always so infinitely gentle with you. I could never understand it. I guess you being an omega explains his sudden change of heart."

"Being an omega meant nothing to him," _You are Jason Todd, my son and my Robin._ "At least it didn't before."

"Maybe that's because he didn't know what he does now," Dick says.

Which is where Jason's patience for Dick's outright passive-aggressive insulting barbs ends. He tosses the neatly stacked piles of clothes off the counter. Grabs the nearest object--an apple--and whips it at Dick's head.

Dick yelps indignantly, trying and failing to roll defensively out of the way. He bends about halfway out of his chair and collapses on the floor. Jason snarls. "Don't pretend like you know what the best choice is."

He lobs another piece of fruit. Dick drags himself across the floor with his left arm behind the couch. "We did exactly the same as you. My parts don't make me any different now or when I was fourteen. The only thing it does is invite obtuse and ignorant people to throw malicious judgment at me. You, pretty boy, had everything given to you on a platter. Especially after Bruce made you his ward."

"You hypocritical son of a bitch," Dick shouts from behind the couch. "You benefitted from the Wayne name just as much as I did. Can you imagine what they would have given you if they knew you were Omegan? Gotham Academy would have eaten from the palm of your hand!"

"And to be made the property of anyone who had a chance at taking my leash? What kind of life is that Dick?" Jason can hear his voice echo off the walls of the flat. Their neighbors could probably hear his voice, as crisp as a full volume television. He couldn't care less. Actually, he could care infinitely more than less but the sheer _insult_ of Dick suggesting that Jason was an idiot for not coming out as omega years ago is beyond offensive. Jason's met drug-peddling scumbags who have shouted less vile things.

"What kind of life is that where I am barred from a majority of positions that would allow me to help the people we try to protect? What kind of life is that where I am demeaned and degraded for an evolutionary trait I did not want? What kind of life is that where I have to _ask for permission_ from another person on whether or not I can attend certain functions? Why in the world would I want _that_?"

Dick stares at him for a long time. Jason grips a banana with the same intimidation as he would a knife. Dick says quietly. "You think this is what I wanted for myself either? To depend on another person on whether or not I can even go outside?"

Jason drops the banana into the sink. Numb calm suffusing his shaking limbs. "Well, in that case, we can suffer in our misery together."

* * *

Dick more or less confines himself in his room for the rest of the day. It's a little satisfying, in that schadenfreude kind of way, watching him crawl back to his chair over the mess of mushed apple. Jason, with nothing to do, sorts and organizes what he brought back from the manor. He leaves the electrical equipment outside Dick's "inner sanctum" and puts the rest of the miscellaneous articles away.

Prepares dinner early, considering they were too busy fighting to eat lunch.

Dick finally emerges from his room around dinner a lot less red in the face. Jason is in the middle of chopping garlic for grilled chicken, caramelized onions, and mashed potatoes. Then, like the bother he is, wheels himself on the other side of the counter. Staring up at Jason with those doe-eyed baby blues.

Damn it. It's like rooming with Bambi.

He's not looking forward to interacting with Dick whether it's an apology--doubtful--or a pitiful attempt at conversation. Unfortunately for him, that seems to be all Dick wants to do. Can see the way he's working on something with the subtle clenching of his jaw. Whatever it is, it must be uncomfortable enough to make Dick's face tense. He liked Dick better when he was high on morphine and painkillers.

Jason glances towards the bathroom where the lie. Maybe it wasn't too late to slip some into his drink?

"When did you know," Dick says after a moment, speaking problem resolved. "That you were an omega?"

Jason doesn't look up from his chopping. Slides the knife over to the side and takes the crushed garlic. Sprinkles it amongst the onions sizzling in the nearby pan. "Always."

"Always?" He sounds confused.

"I didn't think Gotham Academy failed you so badly, Dick," Jason turns over a few of the onions. "When did you know you were a man?"

Dick colors and tilts his gaze to his hands. "There was no, transformation or anything?"

"No," Jason says. "People don't just “become" omegas at a certain age. We are born with our parts like you are with yours. We develop throughout childhood, start experiencing heats at the onset of puberty then we bleed." Jason glances with a raised brow. "Did you ever open a health class book?

"My parents taught me everything I knew. I started at Gotham Academy late. There were no omega students at the time so there had been no reason to teach it. By the time I left for university, it became mandatory. Around the time you started school.

Jason nods, remembering the hot burn of shame that turned to hysterical tears and the smell of the attic. "And your parents never taught you?"

Dick shrugs. "There was one in the circus, not as popular. She left before I was three so I don't remember her. Parents thought it was more important to teach me math and timing for routines than omegas. Considering how little there are of you in general I can understand why they didn't think to do so."

"Because we are salacious outsiders who are wildly unpredictable and dangerous to those that aren't wary." The onions are a nice brown, slightly black at the edges, just like Al taught him. Jason turns off the heat. "Omegas are predators that lie in wait for an unsuspecting man or women to assault. Surprised they didn't arm you with pepper spray."

"I," Dick sputters, cheeks pink and the telltale signs of frustration twitching in his fingers. "You are taking it way out of context. Being dramatic is not helping your case here."

"Give me a country and I can tell you about the laws and what they say of omegas. I'm technically not even allowed in Saudi Arabia, Yemen, Qurac, Indonesia, and even Alabama. There are more but I'm not here to list off every single micro-nation that bans omegas within their borders. They are convinced we are a detriment to society. That our heats make us dangerous to those around us."

"A few countries do not represent the entire world. Omegas are protected by the United Nations and given special rights and protection in a law signed by 153 sovereign states." Dick shoots back. "That's not saying that what happens to omegas in the world isn't wrong but steps are being made progressively in the right direction."

Jason looks down at Dick. Really stares down at him. Eyes flat, mouth a thin line, outwardly emotionless to make his final point as clear as possible. "The Justice League has no omegas in their group."

Dick responds as Jason thought he would. "Because there aren't really any to welcome into the League."

"And yet here I am," Jason says. Dick frowns.

"You aren't a League material, Jason. It isn't about you being an omega. You act outside the gray area the law allows us to operate under. You act on vigilantism rather than League accordance."

Jason doesn't argue because there is no point. Learned yelling at walls only made you lose your tongue. Walls stayed walls, mute and stubbornly solid.

A sigh. "If there were and the League allowed them to join the UN would come after them. The amount of paperwork Tim has to go through to hire omegas for strenuous work is insane. And that's if they didn't just shut down the League itself for violating a basic international law."

"Or is that because they aren't willing to take that chance for possible omega heroes? I might not be the best example but there are others out there just like me. Better than me."

And that is what finally shuts Dick Grayson up.

Dinner is mostly quiet. Dick has no dining table so he eats with his food in his lap. Jason takes the coffee table. He'll have to buy a table tall enough for Dick to eat at comfortably in his chair while he still needs it. No way Jason is going to bend nearly ninety degrees to cut future steak dinners on Dick's frat boy furniture.

Dick pushes around the food on his plate. Jason knows chicken was never Dick's favorite--why do you think he made it--but he was more likely to stuff it in his mouth and swallow whole to be done with it. Not play with it around his plate like they were dolls.

Then he asks. "How did the guards at Blackgate not find out about your gender? When I threw you in there I think that would have been an immediate news article. Red Hood secretly an omega. You know the rogues would have eaten it up."

Jason nods. He knew and he prepared. "I didn't let them get a look at me."

"All prisoners go through an invasive search to make sure they aren't carrying contraband," Dick says. "Did you know Penguin, when he was in Haven tried to sneak in a baggie full of hundreds? So, how did you manage to avoid it?"

"You ever wonder why all the rogues break out the night Bruce puts them in? You wave a twenty in front of their face and their asking you the make and model of the gun you want delivered to your cell. It was easy to avoid a cavity search, pretty boy."

Dick frowns, forever a boy scout, picking at the onions with his fork. "That's not right."

"Whether it is or isn't doesn't matter. It's the way the world works," Jason shrugs and eats another piece of chicken. "People are shit and money is the only law that matters. Hurrah, humanity."

"Is that why you kill, Jason? Because the outlook on humanity is so bleak you are trying to solve the problem by eliminating as many as you can before somebody stopped you?" Dick asks.

"I do what I have to do. There are people out there, better than me, who deserve to be able to live without having to worry about what rapist or murderer is lying in wait on the way home." Jason wipes his mouth and takes his plate. Dick's eyes burn into his back so he stops wets his lips and sighs. "It's not an excuse to kill. I know that I'm not stupid. I just grew up. Realized I didn't like seeing victims of criminal violence be made into just another statistic while their tormenters got their narcissism stroked in the nightly news."

He sets his plate down in the sink and finally regards Dick. Forced impassivity melting away the moment he sees passionate and pure _blue_. "I am not a good man, Dick. I have made my peace with that. I only do what I do, because the thought of someone as good as you becoming a victim one day sickens me."

It's those words that make Dick finally stay silent for the entirety of the night. Jason would appreciate it more if the yawning hole that opened in his stomach didn't make him so restless.


	5. Eight Legs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to apologize for the delay in this chapter! I got caught up writing a huge and very long fic for the DCU Bang and used all my writing time for it. But now that the posting date for the Bang's coming up I can finally start back up on Vendetta!
> 
> Thank you, everyone, for your amazing comments, I cherish and read every single one of them.
> 
> Unbeta'd so apologies for the grammar and spelling mistakes!

Dick's decision on his punishment is announced the following morning once their temporary truce has worn off. Jason's not allowed to go out for the next two days. Which is fine, if you were someone that could stay in one space, stagnant and inactive. Doing so for men like him-- _omegas like him_ \--means the reappearance of unwanted thoughts from the deep recesses of his mind. The scent of burning wood hangs his nose along with the phantom taste of pennies on his tongue follows him around as he does his morning chores.

Shadows where there should be none and the distant sound of breathless laughter fade in despite the closed windows. Jason hates his room. The lack of windows and it's plain tan walls. The fact that it has no escape other than through the single door. As if he needed another physical reminder of his current state of existence, a prisoner of circumstance and body.

Dick, of course, is the same as he is. Jason doesn't know what memories or dreams haunt him but knows they must be as vivid. Wheeling himself around the apartment blatantly angry, he tries to lift then lower himself in small little exercises in his chair. There are a lot of frustrated puffs of breath Jason hears from the inside of his room. He doesn't leave it; worried that Dick will try and engage him in another discussion about "rules" or "omega culture" if he does. Jason had enough of that last night. Didn't avoid his status for the majority of his life only to be reminded of it on an hourly basis by the chattiest man in Gotham.

Around noon, after Jason's made them lunch, their silence ends when Dick receives the first of his many visitors.

Her name is Amy and she was apparently Dick's former police captain when he worked for the Blüdhaven PD. She is a slight woman with long brown hair she's tied up in a ponytail. She surveys the apartment with muted astonishment, finger running along the side of the door frame as she steps into the living room.

"Jesus," she says, "now I have seen it all. Dick Grayson's apartment clean, it's the first sign of the apocalypse."

"Amy," Dick closes the door behind her, waving her off when she tries to shut it herself. "It's good to see you."

Jason is in the kitchen, it's the only place Dick doesn't mind him cleaning, furiously scrubbing the yellow stained grout between the tiles. He looks up then back down. Files the information away for later. Dick's friendliness with the chief of police will not help him currently.

Amy studies the apartment, still mystified by its apparent cleanliness before she turns around and offers Dick a sad smile. "Dick."

"Don't even start," Dick wheels himself into the living room. "Won't be long before I'm out of this and hobbling around. I don't want any apologies or condolences, believe me, my room is already stuffed with cards from people I barely know.

"Hm," she raises a brow but sits down beside him. Reaching out, she takes his hand and gives it a light squeeze. "As much as you hate to hear it I can't keep silent. I want you to know how sorry I am for what happened to you in Havana. I know this wasn't the life you wanted. Even if I didn't agree with how you did it, I feel like we've lost one of the most dedicated men from that costumed world of yours."

Dick shrugs. "There are more people out there that will be able to help you."

"Not as good as you." She dips her head and takes a soft breath. "Dick, I know this is something you probably don't want to hear. But when you're feeling up to it, and if you ever want to put on the uniform again I would be honored to have you apart of our team."

"I don't know how much use I'll be to you Amy," Dick says with a little half smile. "Half of my bathroom is filled with medications for seizures and chronic pain Leslie thinks I'll need for the rest of my life. Certainly can't go running around like I used to anymore."

"It would be a desk job," she clarifies and, for the most part, she winces when Dick's face closes in on itself. "I know that isn't the kind of job you wanted. Or well, what anyone would want really. But it would give you the chance to help people again, new limitations be damned."

Dick looks down at his hands. "New limitations, yeah that sounds about right."

They talk for a little while. Dick turns on the television, some weather channel that they don't watch, Jason has a feeling it's to prevent him from listening. Amy keeps making eyes at him through the little open space that connects the living room and the kitchen. Her eyes study his face before they fall onto the bare, exposed skin of his neck and the curve of his waist. Jason grows increasingly irritated the longer she looks. He cleans the tiles harder until they're so white he could blind himself.

"I didn't know that Bruce had another son," Jason catches as he takes out the top shelf plates to wipe down for the seventh time. "I thought there were only the three of you. None that were omega either."

Jason grits his teeth and pushes a little harder on the glass. There is silence as Dick carefully considers his words, the weight of his eyes are heavy on Jason's shoulders as he leans over the sink.

"Death tends to remove them from the equation," Dick says. "Bruce does love his secrets."

"That hardly surprises me," Amy says, then lowers her voice. Jason would think a police captain would be smart enough to realize that two men, obviously involved with the same vein vigilantism, would know how to listen in on a conversation despite whatever distracting sounds there may be. Perhaps she thinks he is stupid too, sidetracked by his simple omegan brain. "Considering you are both still in my city and you are now his guardian I have to ask you if you have made the appropriate precautions for his heat. There might be a fine if you don't-"

Jason slams the plate down with a little more force than necessary. It shatters into pieces on the counter, startling Amy, but not Dick, who merely turns around as Jason leans over the counter to glare at them.

Amy does not say anything, only looks flustered as Jason glares at her. Red paints her cheeks with every second of silence that passes between them. Rage bubbles in the middle of his gut and threatens to choke him before he even gets the words out.

"Go on," he barks, finally. "Say what you meant to."

"Jason," Dick says, voice nauseatingly calm and level it makes Jason look like he's the silly one for losing his voice. That _he's_ the one acting out of sorts for this normal conversation. "Go to your room."

Oh, and does that burn Jason down to his very bones. To be treated as nothing more than a tantrum throwing, emotional child to be sent to his room without supper. He puffs up his chest, baring his teeth at both Amy and Dick. Pushing away from the counter, he straightens out his shirt and walks down the hallway to his room with whatever dignity he can manage.

He is nothing to them but a thoughtless child.

* * *

More guests come, mostly members of the Blüdhaven police department. One man stays for hours, even when others come and go, named Gannon. Based on what Jason remembers when he was playing catch up around the world, he is Dick's former partner. He is a friendly, smiling man who talks to Dick about his boyfriend and other invasive questions you'd expect from in-laws who haven't seen you all year round. There are a few questions about Barbara and if they're still dating--they aren't--some foods he's heard promote better healing--they don't--and how Dick is getting along with his new status as guardian--not good.

Jason smiles to himself when he hears Dick finally prompt him to leave.

Most of the men and women that come are there to offer him condolences and some gift or other. It mostly comes in the form of flowers and foods that Dick accepts graciously only to dump into a trash bag he leaves in the coat closet near the door when they leave. There is a sour edge to his voice that Jason hears whenever a guest brings another gift to his door.

By the end of the day, Jason is anxious with energy. He's run around the room quietly several times but nothing makes it better or worse. He merely exists in a state of suffocating helplessness, hall-marked by the absence of any feeling other than overwhelming fretfulness. It haunts him as he moves through the meditative motions of tui shou, making him over correct and unbalance himself as he pushes and pulls with an invisible partner. Hands shaking, blood pounding in his ears he goes the entire day trying to ignore listening to the conversations happening beyond the door. They are marked with an infatuation with Dick's new roommate, what is name is and if Dick had always known. Peppered in between their curiosity is a constant stream of apologies for Dick's new status. It is enough to build fury, all-consuming and poisonous, in his stomach.

Jason would avoid him in a mood like this, only there is no place to go inside the tiny apartment except within one another's orbit.

Eventually, they do end up crossing paths when Jason finally slinks out of his room to start cooking dinner. Dick is sitting on the couch, wheelchair abandoned in the far corner of the room at an awkward angle. Considering the dark scowl on Dick's face it is no mystery how it got there. It's hard not to groan at the sight. Dick's anger is a toxic thing that spreads throughout the room, potent and infectious. At least Jason's rage has a purpose--most of the time--Dick's was often as pointless as it was destructive.

Jason gathers the supplies he needs for potpie from the leftovers the night before. Dick says nothing when Jason gets to work, clanking bowls and pots on the counter as he preps the area to cut up the refrigerated chicken and vegetables. The tension from earlier in the day starts to fade. As always, simple movement gets his mind out of his head, away from the green-tinged thoughts in the dark recesses of it.

He is about halfway through making dinner, washing and skinning the carrots in the sink when Dick tires of keeping quiet.

"I know we don't get along anymore, but for the sake of keeping up appearances you have to start behaving."

Jason grits his teeth. He yearns for a smoke more than anything, especially with how badly his hands shake when Dick speaks. That habit had been given up the moment he realized he was going to start staying with Dick for his sake. Now, he might have liked just a pack of Camels to take out onto the balcony deck. "Then don’t allow them to talk about my status. We'll get along perfectly well if you discourage that kind of behavior in the future."

"I can't control what they talk about. It's only gossip," Dick turns around in his seat, glare coldly resting on Jason's face. The niceties from the night before have melted away. Why did omegas have to be considered the vexingly moody when Dick Grayson existed? "You don't think you're the only one they're talking about? A dozen people came over to look and ogle at me. More people have been doing the same thing when I was in the hospital. Just because you've been outed as an omega doesn’t mean I'm suffering any less."

Jason sets the knife down and takes a deep breath in through his nose. Certainly won't help them any if Jason goes and adds another injury to Dick's already extensive list. No matter how nice it'd be to have him screaming about pain rather than _his_ supposed unhappiness with the world. "You will recover, I will remain something to stare at no matter what."

"Someone has a high opinion of himself," Dick says. "If you think the most interesting thing to chat about is you, your head is so far up your ass I don't even know where to begin pulling it out."

"You are completely and utterly missing the point of this conversation. Hearing you speak is on every level offensive. You will treat me as you always have."

Dick regards him silently. Observing him with such poorly concealed disdain it makes Jason, already in a state of terrible restlessness, wilt. His eyes trace down the pronounced, yet subtle curve at his waist, back up the expanse of his chest to the bared portion of his pale neck. The scar Bruce left him with an eternity ago stands unimpeded on his skin. His gaze hesitates on it, the way the skin is just a bit lighter, almost invisible save for the subtle rise of the rough flesh. Onto his lips then his nose and finally his eyes.

Then Dick says something Jason would never think possible of him to command. "Strip."

A cold sweat breaks along the skin of his too hot back. He gapes at Dick stupidly, closing his mouth with a notable click. He doesn't understand why he would make such a demand there is no reason to. And yet, he does, serious as the day he told him Bruce had been killed--no matter how inaccurate that information had been.

"Why," Jason swallows, glaring at Dick with an indecisive resentment at the audacity of his demand and the fact that his will did not matter. Dick owned him. It was hardly a matter of logical debate, had Jason been blindsided by a terrible fear of what would happen if he refused. Going to the police about an abusive guardian would only result in Dick's friends returning him to the apartment, shaking their heads and laughing about how terrible he was as a warden.

They'd probably stay and make sure Jason followed through with Dick's demands.

Dick only purses his lips and settles back on the couch, cradling his injured arm against his lap. "The men and women that visited today have discussed you at length. I don't know what it is about you that inherently appeals to them so drastically it is the only thing they want to know. They are as obsessed with you as they are with my injury. What is it about you that separates that makes you so fundamentally unusual in comparison?"

Settling back into the couch, Dick grows ever more frustrated. The scowl on his face getting darker the longer his eyes rake across Jason's face. "We've known each other since we were kids, and I haven't seen anything that sets us apart. Why does the world suddenly care so much about what you are when no one gave a damn if you were alive or not before?"

Jason curls his lip and says nothing. Waits for a moment for Dick to recant his ridiculous demand. Only he doesn't. He glowers at Jason, unblinking and defiant as if he expects Jason to storm off so he can stew in his righteous ire over Jason's terrible "omeganess." That his friends were right to express their concerns to him over his new roommate and Jason is a dreadful and argumentative creature. A thing, whose only reason for existence, is to make everyone's life more difficult.

When Jason moves it's to take off his shirt, pulling it over his head and dropping it onto the floor. His pants follow, pushes down the rising nausea in his stomach, and then his boxers.

Being nude in front of others does not bother Jason. When he would take showers in the cave with only a towel around his waist it hardly troubled him if Bruce or Alfred saw. It was only after the realization that his status meant the ruin of himself that he grew defensive of it. That he refused to shower with Roy or Kori or others without the aid of swimwear or in the privacy of his own room. Most assumed he was covering from his own shyness. They teased him about it, mercilessly so, but Jason would have taken anything over them finding out about his terrible secret.

He steps out of his boxers and watches Dick, his face quickly goes from outright fury to dismay--at himself for his demand or Jason's body he doesn't know--and he turns away. Jason knows what he sees. There is a cock, small and unremarkable, capable of function but hardly as useful as any other. He lacks testicles, like every other omega, instead the lips of his cunt open around the space where his slit hides. It is smaller than average, making any children he'd have tinier in comparison to most. It is almost impossible for him to get pregnant because of the absurd complexity of his genitals. The only thing that makes him able to bear would be multiple... _copulations_ in a number of hours, hence the heats.

He is, biologically, a creation from an ancient time that should have died long ago. His genes are a damned curse that might have been evolved out of human's DNA if it weren't for those periodic heats that played on humans' most basic and primal need; the desire to reproduce.

Something to be gawked at, used, and then discarded. That is all he is.

"Do I offend you?" Jason says, holding out his arms, doing a little turn so Dick, though he no longer watches, gets a view of him at all angles. "Do you feel better? Do you feel more assured in what you are in comparison?"

"No," Dick says, refusing to look at him. Jason snorts and pulls on his boxers and pants but not his shirt, leaving it on the ground. Forcing Dick to stare at him should he finally look up from his lap. _He_ made the request; Jason's not about to let him pretend this wasn't from his own invitation.

"Then you are weak. If you ever demand such a thing from me again I will make sure you never walk." Jason marches back into his room to hide under the covers, clutching the Kris to his chest he wills his heart to stop beating so quickly.

* * *

The second day passes a lot like the first. Jason makes them food before visitors overwhelm Dick and he retreats to his room. Majority of them Dick barely knows. None are friends; most are Gotham socialites or friends of Brucie Wayne. They stay for a little bit, talk about how unlucky he is while they make disparaging comments about his home and then leave. Vicki Vale even shows up but Babs, who's set up a perimeter, warns them about her attempts to sneak in with his steady stream of visitors. Dick sends her away with a smile and a "no comment," at whatever question she manages at the door. Jason stays in his room.

All in all the situation is awful and Dick doesn’t know why he agrees to something that so obviously offends the both of him. It makes him so angry, that Jason gets to sit in his room pissed at the world and Dick like everyone's conspired against him. He's not the one who has to sit there and smile through rounds and rounds of people looking at him with pity and gloomy loss, talking about him as if he's invalid and incapable of even wiping his own ass.

_It's a good thing you have an omega around. I heard outside of all that heat business they're wonderful caretakers. Brucie was smart to bring one into the fold, especially now considering your tragic state._

The procession of onlookers is more of an audience coming to watch a circus act than a line of relieved men and women, happy to see that Dick's just alive. They study his face with meticulous scrutiny, picking apart the way the gauze sits on the side of his face. Can see them imagining what it must look like underneath it. Staring at the way his hair parts, the stubble from the portion that had been shaved away peeking out beneath the gauze. They lament on the state of his legs and ask when--never if--he'll be able to walk again.

He is a thing, not a person, come one come all to look at the non-flying Grayson. Jason can leave any time he wants, it's Dick that's stuck inside the tiny walls of his apartment, only able to leave if he has aid. Alone and abandoned by Bruce who's left him in the care of a man that cares for him no more than an ant. He hardly has the means to heave himself out of the chair and into bed. Days since he's bathed, gauze days old now, he'll have to ask Jason for help at some point.

Sickened by his own helplessness Dick stares at the walls of his apartment, too clean and bare. Tries to think of a way to bathe himself without asking for Jason's help and comes up with nothing. Then, out the cracks in the walls, moves a black little speck. Careful, it glides down the light tan of the walls, a stark contrast, as he focuses on its spindly body and eight legs. A spider, relatively the size of his thumb, stretches down on a thread.

A voice, speaks in the back of his head.

_Quiet, mi amor._

Chest tightening, Dick scrambles back and out of the wheelchair, landing hard on the floor. Cold sweat pours down his back as his muscles contract, spreading to the very tips of his fingers. His breath comes out rapidly while he drags himself across the carpet; the sharp pain of the wounds on his arms and legs keeps him moving back to the half-open balcony door. All he can see is the eight stretching legs of the spider along the tan, solid black shadow reaching out towards his feet.

The night air is freezing against his flushed skin and he heaves himself onto the concrete, chest heaving as he stares up at the night sky and the brightly lit casinos in the distance. Moonlight pours down against the red brick of the wall, congealing into a solid mass at his feet as phantom hands slide him his thighs and chest. Warmth where there is nothing settles hard against his lower stomach and he closes his eyes to shut out the too brilliant stars above him.

Spiders. He's always hated spiders.

It takes longer to come back from his panic attack. Shaking in a puddle of damp clothes, his hands are locked into tight fists at his sides that refuse to uncurl. Car honks and muffled sounds of distant chatter on the street below return to him as the dull ringing in his ears fades. The stars are nothing more than pinpricks of light now, hidden behind the neon glow of the casino signs. Moon hiding behind a passing cloud bathes the balcony in shadow, no longer a spotlight. The spider on the wall has vanished.

Slowly, Dick sits up, fighting back nausea. It takes an annoyingly long amount of time to sit back against the glass doors. His whole body ache strung tight and stiff, it's all he can do just to close his eyes. Remains there, letting the night air burn against his cheeks and listens to the sounds of cars driving by. Certainly not the embarrassing display of his, another mark on the list of how far he's fallen.

It takes another two minutes before he realizes that he is not alone.

"You know, I came out here with the intention of yelling at you," Roy is sitting on the iron railing of the balcony. He is in black sweats and a pullover hiding the Kevlar top of his uniform. His glasses rest on his head as he looks out over the Blüdhaven skyline. Shaved head, it looks good on him--short hair that is--and a little scowl on his face.

There was a time when Dick thought they could have been brothers, up until Roy left the Titans to strike it out on his own. Followed Jason around the world with a disillusioned Kori while Dick remained in Gotham to pick up Bruce's many pieces. Dick will never admit, out loud at least, how much that had hurt him.

"Are you alright?" Roy says when Dick doesn't answer.

"Yeah," Dick says, wincing as his leg takes that moment to remind him just how "alright" he is. "How long have you been here?"

"A few minutes, I would have helped but I know how you feel about contact when these things happen."

A dislocated jaw and fractured wrist taught a lot of people how much Dick, physical and touchy-feely as he is, handled touching during attacks. Hypocritical of his body really does better with attention and then changes the rules after one, arguably terrible, night. It was weird; figuring out that the last thing he wanted was a hug during some of the worst minutes of his life.

Dick swallows and nods his head, letting his eyes fall shut. Figures there in need of a subject change before Roy starts asking too many probing questions. The last thing he needs is any more pity today. "You came here to yell at me?"

Roy seems to realize what he's doing too. He sighs, glancing up, eyes tracing over the constellations. Maybe just staring into the dark and wondering what's going on light years away. "Yeah, still will, but on a night where I won't feel guilty afterward. No use beating a man while he's down."

"It's been a rough couple weeks." Dick regards Roy carefully. Slipping off the railing, Roy walks the rest of the way across the balcony to sit on the ground beside him. "Did you come here to tell me how stupid in Havana I was?"

"Nah," Roy looks at him. Close like this it's easy to see the dark purple skin underneath Roy's eyes, the way the shadows pool into the weary lines of his face. Makes him look older, the moonlight bathing his hair in a beam of white making the red go silver. "I wanted to beat the shit out of you for what you did to Jason."

Dick narrows his eyes. Now that's a first. "What _I_ did to Jason?"

"I don’t know where you get off," Roy talks over him, ignoring what he's said. "Going along with Bruce's frankly awful decision about removing his freedom by exposing him. You weren't like that when we ran together. I get that you Bats always have to be in control, it's why I never fought for a leading role with you lot, but this is beyond despicable, punishing him for something he can't help."

"This isn't about him being an omega, why does everyone care about that? He's been on thin ice even before what happened in Havana, it was either this or prison." Dick glares at Roy, anger fighting an uphill battle against his fatigue. He wants to be mad, truly, especially with the dark rage that still lingers in the back of his mind. Feeding off of every little bit of concern that goes to Jason. Doesn't anyone understand that the bigger prisoner here is Dick? "Look at me, Roy. None of this would have happened if we took Jason out of the scene and got him proper treatment years ago."

A scoff. "Or it still might have. Kori was thinking about coming out here to slap you for what you did. Says it's no better than what the Komand'r and the Psions did to her."

Dick swallows, throat terribly dry. Can see Kori's eyes wet with tears as she sobs into his shoulder spilling out dark and awful secrets about the years she spent as a science experiment and a slave. _They saw me as nothing, my own sister regarded bacteria with more affection_. "This is a completely different situation."

"Yeah, well, you have fun telling her that," Roy snaps, sudden. Dick rolls his head against the window to look at Roy. How his head hangs, limp on his shoulders, fatigue spreading physically by the droop in his posture. "Jason is not your enemy after what happened in Havana I'd think you'd be more eager to find out what happened to him. You know? Make sure he was okay."

He looks away. "He's recovered fine."

Roy sighs next to him, tired and irritated. Same sighs he used when Lian would throw her food on him after showering. "Physically, I’m sure he has. He got off incredibly lucky when it came to how many people died in that blast. Mentally, however, it's got to be weighing on him."

Dick frowns. "As far as I'm concerned, Jason can leave and go back to gallivanting around the world with the two of you whenever he wants. Just because Bruce said he couldn’t anymore doesn't mean it's impossible not to. He's never listened to us before."

"Then you don't know, Jason," Roy says. "Do you know why I followed him around? Why I put up with letting him, a literal kid compared to me, take the reigns? Because he offered Kori and me a chance to help people the way _we_ wanted to. Which meant sometimes making the tough choice to not be the heroes we wanted to be."

Roy rests a hand on Dick's shoulder. "I know you agree with me on that."

He does, as much as he hates to admit it to himself. There are people in this world that are beyond the point of saving. That no matter how much Dick tries to be the good guy and help people that there will always be someone out there who is unreachable. Someone that will take his good will and use it against him in order to perpetuate more violence, spread more chaos, and do more harm to people out there that do not deserve it. As much as he disagrees with Jason's approach to crime, Jason has never let his aggression take the reigns in a situation.

Has never let himself be swallowed up to the point of horrible, all-consuming anger where it becomes impossible to think beyond anything other than how to cause the most pain. How to cause the most hurt whether it is through words or violence.

_The smell of blood and wet on his hands, the broken wheeze of laughter while Tim grips his shoulder and shakes him. "Stop Dick, stop!"_

"Then there's nothing stopping him from deciding to go back to being an outlaw with the two of you." It doesn't change his argument. Jason can still at any time decide enough is enough and go back to being Red Hood. Dick can't. There's a high likely hood that he will never be able to be Nightwing again. Never be able to be himself again.

That's...It's a lot to come to grips with.

"It'd be so easy if that were true wouldn't it?" Roy pulls away and rubs at the short hair on his head. "Just get up and go do whatever he wants. That's not Jason, Dick. Never was. I think he's more of a rule follower than you are."

Dick scoffs. "You’ll forgive me for finding that never difficult to believe."

"You hardly know him," Roy stands up. "Never got to know him before he died and hardly did the same when he got back. If you did I know you'd feel a lot differently about what Bruce has done to him. About what you're doing to him."

Sticking his hands in his pockets Roy sighs. "I didn't come all this way to be cruel to you, Dick. You're one of my closest friends, you and Jason. What happened...I will never forgive myself for not being there for either of you when you needed it. For taking so long to make sure either of you are alright."

Dick crosses his arms and closes his eyes. Thoughts a sluggish mess he struggles to try and understand how he could have misunderstood Jason. They didn't get along, but they were still brothers. They've worked together in the past, on missions before Havana and Dick never saw anything that indicates what Roy is trying to explain to him. Jason the rule follower, had Roy forgotten the existence of Red Hood, Jason's entire modus operandi went against everything their family stood for? That if he was hell-bent on regaining Bruce's approval the entire mission in Havana was a prime example of how wrong Jason was?

The idea is ludicrous. It aggravates his already throbbing head and he reaches up to soothe his temples.

"You need to learn how to get along," Roy says. "If either of you ever want to get back to helping people again you'll need to be on each other's side."

Roy climbs up onto the railing, Dick doesn't see but he can hear his steel-toed boots hitting against the iron as he steadies himself on the edge. Dick wishes he could join him.

"If I come back and find out you haven't bothered to do any of it, I’ll really hit you."

He leaves Dick alone on the balcony where he spends the rest of the night until Jason drags him in the following morning.

* * *

It's been three days since he left the note in Henry's flat. Jason knows that Henry, if he's still alive, should be waiting at their meeting point in Lower Gotham in an abandoned Janus Cosmetics warehouse every night between five and six. He only has two more days, he knows, before Henry stops showing up entirely. Which is good, because Dick is stiff and sore from his night outside.

Did he say good, he meant so shitty that if the Penguin invited Jason for a date so he could talk about the mating habits of sea lions Jason would be happier to accept.

Dick is tetchy, foul-mouthed, and almost immobile with pain. Worst of it is Dick stinks of salt from the stale sea air of Blüdhaven harbor and body odor. The remaining hair on his head is greasy, bandages needing to be changed. Jason knows that he is going to have to wash and clean Dick himself. And he does, to Dick's very obvious displeasure.

"I can do it myself."

"No, you can't."

Dick is, for a normal man who has slept with a number of girls--and boys if Kyle and Roy weren't just trying to impress each other with how big their dicks were--terribly shy about letting Jason see him nude.

"I've seen smaller cocks, Dick."

"That's hardly the issue," Dick yelps when Jason pulls off his sweatpants, ignoring the weak hand that slaps down on his back when he takes hold of the boxers.

"Hope you treated your nurses better, Dickie," Jason slips off the boxers, trying to avoid direct content with Dick's nice and unfairly above-average cock. Was everything about this guy perfect? Hats off to Mary and John, they must have been two very good-looking people.

"Just-can you let me-" Dick tries when Jason begins pulling off his shirt when he can barely move his arms high enough to take it off.

He would point out the irony of the situation, how Dick thinks he might have felt when Dick demanded him to strip for no other reason than to assert his own superiority. Instead, Jason tosses the dirty shirt into the hamper along with a number of the bandages. Beneath them he smells, even worse than when they were covered. Days old puss has stained the gauze yellow; mixing in with the antibacterial cream and Vaseline has left the skin soft and oily. When the gauze on his head comes off Dick turns away so Jason can't see the shaved patch of hair.

He hesitates.

The embarrassment Dick has for himself makes is like a physical presence in the room. Shame turns his cheeks red and the normal smirk on his face has been absent for so long it's like Dick's forgotten how to smile. Tentative, Jason reaches out, resting one hand on Dick's shoulder while the other slides under his knees.

Dick, after spending weeks in a coma, and then even longer on fluids, barely eats most of the food Jason makes him. There are periods of the day where he doesn't eat at all. Jason's strong, but lifting full-grown muscled men is hard. At least, it normally is.

Lifting Dick though, it's like picking up a kitten.

It's easy to see now, the way his hipbones jut out against his loose skin, the lack of abdominal muscles and the gauntness of his cheeks. Skeletal is too dramatic of a word, but terrifyingly skinny sounds about right. Underneath his clothes and the amount of gauze padding his clothes, Jason can't believe he didn't notice it before. Dick shifts uncomfortably in his arms on the way to the bathroom. Cheeks a bright scarlet and eyes darting around, he looks everywhere but Jason's face.

Offended by his own behavior, Jason is silent the entire time he washes Dick. Methodical and thorough, he makes sure to clean the stitches appropriately. Doesn't poke fun at Dick anymore, not when he's so obviously uncomfortable with the appearance of his own body. Jason doesn't stare either, moves quick and efficient so that the bath is over in less than a few minutes.

Toweling him off, re-dressing his wounds takes another couple of minutes. Dick, while nursing sore and stiff muscles, doesn't fight Jason, desperate to be recovered and sat in his wheelchair. Jason thinks about apologizing and then decides against it. The only words that have been said to Dick in the last 48 hours are variations of the words "sorry." No doubt he is getting sick of the word.

Jason sets Dick up on the couch with some water and a number of bland snacks for when the train of guests inevitably continue. Wally comes by around noon and Dick, fed up with the sight of Jason most likely, orders him out to run a few errands that should take several hours. He's more than happy to leave. So happy in fact he leaves his phone, the only traceable thing on him, and heads out in Dick's car.

Oops. His mistake.

Most of the errands are simple to complete tasks. He picks up a number of Dick's new medications from the pharmacy, he gets some food--all nonperishable for now--and picks up a few packages waiting for Dick at the post office. By the time he finishes, it's around two in the afternoon giving him three or so hours before he can go to Lower Gotham and meet Henry.

Dick didn't give him a time to return by and while testing his new freedom isn't a smart idea--certainly doesn't want to spend another two days under house arrest--this is the only chance he has to meet Henry. Because asking Dick if he can go out in the early evening for any other reason than buying dinner will most definitely get him a tail. Doesn't need any more lectures on proper behavior thanks. He'd rather eat a bowl full of tacks.

Or slam back a shot glass of Axe body spray.

He shudders. _All right, over-active imagination let's cool it on the gross metaphors okay? Thanks._

With a few more hours to kill Jason digs out some of his stashed money he keeps under the passenger seat of Dick's car. Running around Lower Gotham in the clothes of a well to do omega will catch attention faster than Batman in sunlight. Besides, he wants something a little more flexible than just some jeans and a T-shirt that Dick has stowed in the backseat. He might not be Red Hood anymore but that doesn't mean he can't keep the fear alive in Gotham scum. Especially his willing-to-sell-him-out-for-one-chip snitches.

Stops at a sports outlet where the man at the register greets him. The man is nice but continually steers him to the "omega" section of the shop--one pitiful little aisle filled with tight yoga pants and low collar shirts--until Jason tells him he's shopping for his guardian. The man relaxes, laughing lightly and admits, "he doesn't know much about omega fashion."

Jason doesn't have the heart to tell him he doesn't either.

The man is a lot more useful after that. He finds a number of high-end but affordable clothes that are, according to the man, a little too "overly masculine" for his apparent omega taste. The man promises they'll look good on his guardian even if they aren't the warm pastels Jason is so obviously used to. No doubt it would blow his poor mind if he found out the gunmetal gray compression pants and the long-sleeve top was for Jason.

He buys a fair amount of clothes, new shoes, several pairs of identical shorts, tops, kneepads, wrist guards along with a dark maroon hoodie and neck warmer. Hands the cash money over--much to the man's continual surprise--and realizes that he will probably never be able to shop there again.

"What does your guardian do?" The man asks, gaze drifting down Jason's neck and falling directly onto _that_ pale scar tissue.

Jason smiles. "Paintball."

It’s hard, driving around when he knows the Bats are watching. Babs still has her networks set up when she was Oracle and Tim is nothing if not obsessive when it comes to checking security systems. He'll have to be careful in where he goes. Avoids popular streets for crime--like any omega would do--and slips into a gas station bathroom to change. The compression pants and shit are a lot like his old uniform. The problem is the attention it draws to the curves of his waist--hidden when he slides on the hoodie--and the initial feeling of having his muscles squeezed too tight. Then it fades, body adjusting like it's his old suit.

Feels right, hell even better than right. This is what he's _supposed_ to be.

He parks Dick's car on a street in Old Gotham, alongside the luxurious boutiques with men and women wearing Versace and Armani. They scoff at the scratches and dents on Dick's used car when he parks it down an alley. One woman eyes him with open disgust at the pads on his knees and glances at his eyes in the shadow of his hoodie.

" _Tourists_." She scoffs and walks past him without giving him a second glance. Good, means his disguise is working.

It's too easy to use the fire exit staircase nearby to climb to the top of the nearby apartment building. The night air is cool stories above the crowded streets, the noise almost a muffled, distant sound a world apart. Standing on the edge of the building, looking at the street below Jason surveys the endless sea of flat asphalt. Holding out his arms he lets gravity pull him down.

His heart soars.

The concrete roof sends a shock through his arms when his hands make contact, rolling to break his fall. Springs up mid-sprint, bursting with limitless energy after being grounded for so long. Leaping across the little space from one building to the next, he yells. Every jolt from the impact races up through the soles of his feet and makes his heart beat faster.

Jason smiles for the first time in a long time. Finally, _finally_ free.

It's electric: the feeling of the wind rushing past his cheeks, whipping the loose folds of his jacket. Gravel crunching beneath his feet, he runs faster and faster. The rush brings tears to his eyes from the gusts of wind. Mind blank and relying purely on reaction Jason finally feels the tension drain out of him. It would be impossible to think of anything else besides _instinct_ now.

When Jason was young and his father was too busy getting drunk and his mother was passed out from heroin in the bedroom he would go running. It was the only way to get the doubts and anxieties in his head to stop screaming. They would tear at his feet as he ran down the sidewalks, over gates, and into sewers.

Jason ran and ran. Away from his terrible home and his father's insults, until he was panting, over exhausted, hiding out alone in one of Gotham's many forgotten holes. Sometimes there would be a winged shadow above him, a pair of black wings that would stretch long across his arms and if he looked up he would catch the tail end of a cape fluttering by. Childishly thought of how lucky it would be to fly in Batman's shadow one day, like every other kid in Gotham.

Fantasy is always better than reality.

By the time he reaches Lower Gotham. He is dripping he is wet underneath his jacket, heart pounding in his chest. The grin on his face burns almost as much as his legs. He takes his position in the rafters of the abandoned warehouse, mind blank and stomach growling. He'll have to get dinner on the way back for himself.

Jason frowns, right, and Dick. How could he forget about his lovely little ex-brother?

It still upsets him, as it would anyone, that he is nothing more than a plaything for Dick. That he can be told to strip, to clean, to fetch dinner, to wash, and go to his room like a mindless little robot. It sickens him in a way that he shouldn’t mind or care about. Not anymore. Not after growing up with that information, knowing how the world saw him and what it thought. This was always going to happen.

When Jason became Robin he thought he finally had a chance to make his future something he wanted. That he didn't have to become another criminal in and out of prison like his father or a drug addict like his mother. When he realized he was an omega and Bruce let him stay as Robin he thought that he could be something more than what the world assumed was an animal ruled by his sex drive. Which was, if anyone ever cared to find out, nonexistent even during those few weeks out of the year. Of course, all it would take is one botched mission for everything he'd ever worked to be blown away.

He closes his eyes and presses his palms against them. No use getting upset about it now. What's done is done; all Jason can do is focus on things he can change. Things such as the information spill about his status to Flamingo and the team up between the False Face Society and the Penitente Cartel. Did that information leak start with Roman? Jason's only worked with the bastard once, and "worked" means blowing the shit out of his holdings in Gotham during his revenge plan against Bruce. How Roman might have found out is beyond him, he doesn't exactly have the friendliest relationship with Talia or Bruce--the only two who know.

Unless there's someone out there who does without his knowledge passing out that little treat like chocolate candies on Easter. Hopefully, he'll get something decent from Henry, find the leak, plug it and go back to playing nursemaid to Dick. Maybe even before the Gala next week.

Oh right, the Gala. Forgot all about that little shiner.

The noises, the people dressed up in their expensive suits and gowns, sniffing at his neck as they try to talk to him. How grateful he should be that he is in Dick and Bruce's care. That's going to be great, he thinks in the most sardonic and sarcastic voice that he can muster. He'll need to look up a WikiHow article on "How to Not Kill Annoying Rich People." Wonder how many hits that would get. Maybe use some of his money to hire a decent artist for once. He rolls over, thinking about pawing hands at his waist as he tries to climb away. Pulling him back down so they can tease and pinch and tear at his skin for something, anything, to amuse themselves.

A car door slams somewhere nearby outside. Jason tilts his head, looking over the rafters as a lone shadow stretches across the dusty floor of the warehouse. A moment later comes a man walks in shaved head save for a mohawk of brown hair in a black suit. On his wrist is a gold watch that glimmers in the red and orange sunset that shines through the wide entryway. Henry Thomas.

"You clean up nice," Jason says. "How many men did you have to kill before Roman gave you the member's watch?"

Henry jolts, staring up at the roof, looking around in the shadows before his eyes land on Jason. No relaxation in his posture, Jason's intimidation tactics as the Red Hood had long lasting consequences. Nice when you were dealing with men who made a living not minding whether they beat a kid in little, green panties.

"Wasn't sure if you were a ghost or not," Henry's voice and grammar have, tragically, not improved since they last spoke. Maybe he should make his moles take Reading Rainbow lessons. "Thought you blew up in Havana along with Flamingo."

Jason sits up, letting his feet dangle over the side of the iron support beam. Kicking them out like a kid, he regards Henry silently, waiting to watch him squirm. "So you knew he'd be there."

"Not till after," Henry crosses his arms and gazes up at Jason. "Li handles all that for Black Mask, I'm lucky to know when my paycheck comes."

"How does that work, I've always wondered. Do they ask for your SSN number when they hire you? A list of references and years of experience?" Jason gets up and walks across the beam, watching Henry as he moves. Henry knows better than to move, a few stray bullets here and there have kept him unwilling to try anything threatening. Better to not have to worry about his moles turning assassin on him. "I find it really hard to believe that you had no idea the Penitente Cartel was working with the False Face Society."

Henry shifts on his feet, annoyed but reluctant to seem so. "Li said Eduardo owed Black Mask a favor. Said he had somethin' Eduardo wanted." Henry scoffs. "So much for gettin' it, can't cash in when you're dead."

Something Eduardo wanted. That doesn't make sense, if Roman had something Eduardo wanted was it enough that he was willing to die for it? Eduardo wasn't exactly a suicidal criminal the same way Joker acted; he didn't do things where his own death was required. Majority of the time he did things because it meant someone else died. You know, so he could eat them.

"Did you know Eduardo was planning to blow up the warehouse?"

Henry frowns. "The Penitente Cartel wanted Bane out of the way in Havana, said they'd give him Eduardo's contract if Mask got rid of Bane."

That worked out well enough, Bane was still, as of recent, missing. His "death" had never officially been reported and there was no Venom-saturated body parts or DNA splatter on the walls. Cartel probably rooted out all of Bane's lackies in the government once their monstrous leader was out of the picture.

That still doesn't explain how Eduardo knows. Henry doesn't seem to. Jason knows Henry as well as he knows all of the moles in his charge and most were terrible, misogynistic killers for hire that were only spared an instant bullet because they were not bad enough that rape was included in their list of priors. But, like all of them, they talked shit and refused to listen to anyone they saw less than their definition of hyper-masculine.

The fact Henry's here, talking to him, means Roman or Eduardo, whoever knows, didn't go mouthing off to the False Face Society--or the entire Gotham underworld. The cartel's not involved, so Jason can cross off that path. What Henry says lines up with what exactly happened in Havana and Jason's never interacted with anyone else inside the cartel that would possess such intimate knowledge.

Which leaves him back at square one. If Roman was the one who told Eduardo, who told him?

He'll need a bit more solid information that hearsay. Roman gets a number of visitors in Blackgate, from lawyers to reporters about the case of his arrest, he'll need records who's visiting him and why. That way he can build up a list of possible suspects and find who might have told Roman or what he offered Eduardo.

"I'm going to need you to keep your ears open," Jason says. "I need names, who's visiting Sionis in prison, who Li's talking to outside of the Society, other gangs they might be partnering with."

"Jesus," Henry glares up at him. "Do you know how hard that's gonna be? The boys already think I'm some kinda brown-noser kissin' Li's boots. You think they're gonna let me get away with this?"

"You do it and I'll see about getting you out of that shithole you're currently living in."

There's a pause as Henry studies him, curious and careful before he says, "yeah, and why don't you join the gang instead? Get that information yerself without makin' life harder for me? You ain't exactly doin' anythin' now."

Jason offers him a sharp smile. "I have a debt to take care of."


	6. Armistice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the lovely comments! Apologies for any grammar/spelling errors in this chapter, as always. Hopefully, now that my bang fic has been completed, that you can check out [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16666942/chapters/39081685) if you want some Dick/Tiger, I will be able to post more regularly. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy the update!
> 
> Check out my [tumblr.](https://awonderfultyrant.tumblr.com/)

There is a universal rule, if you think about it. Doctors don't need to tell you in any case. It's one of those, "this is really obvious and the fact you're questioning it makes me worry about what else you do in your normal life" kind of cases. Like the type of kids who stick pins through their hands in home economics with disregard for what other dumb assholes who had the same dangerous idea to shove it through their own palms.  
  
It's that mixing several types of pain medication together and then going, for lack of a better word, ham on more--in this case Vicodin with some various antibiotics and an anti-nausea pill--would result in a train of thought that only men and women high on LSD might experience. Bad Decision Central with stops at "Yes, You Should Absolutely Drive Now" junction and "Vivid Nightmares." It's why they recommend having someone check in or care for you if you live by yourself. Isn't he lucky that he has someone to watch him? To make all these important decisions on his behalf? Leslie told him not to go making any life-altering choices in the first months of his recovery. The expectation was that Bruce would do so for him, in any event, like they had done before. But Bruce is off in space leaving Jason behind to take care of those imperative choices.  
  
Nice. Good. Fantastic.

Oh, and that he should remain in the wheelchair for another month before he starts learning to walk again.  
  
Dick can see why it's easy to get addicted to Vicodin. It makes the pain in his body slip into some unknown crack in the back of his mind leaving him relatively painless. Painless, eesh, okay not exactly that word, more like numb to the point of concern. Numb that where Dick is starting to think about pulling an asshole kid in sewing class and jamming a needle through the meat of his leg just to see if he can even still feel anymore.  
  
It should be noted, likewise, that the combination of drugs--plus the fact he his recovering from brain surgery he is--leaves him almost permanently irritated. The Vicodin takes away most of the pain, leaving him drugged and loose, which--in Leslie's description--should make him calmer and more relaxed without discomfort weighing on his conscious.  
  
Here's the problem though. Dick is probably one of the worst patients in the history of the medical field. Listening? Yeah, ok, he listens, but that doesn't mean he follows through with professional advice. Just like how he, alright, sort of pays attention to what Bruce says but doesn’t _really_ listen to him anymore because what's the point of listening to a man that is just going to change his mind about a situation anyway. Vicodin takes the sharp pain away but it leaves him too limp and weak to do anything in his body. Which is why when he wakes up to the stabbing, aching pain that has literally become a daily reminder of how much his life sucks now, he ignores the numerous orange pill bottles that overwhelm the nightstand next to his bed and, instead, stares at the leg brace and cane across the room.  
  
Succinctly breaks Rule Number One, don't make any life-changing decisions. Ignores the pill bottle of Vicodin and eases himself into sitting position. His bed is already so close to the left wall that all he has to do to is barely lean over to grab it.  
  
It's an ugly thing. Black metal bars standing straight up with straps that wrap around his thigh and ankle with a brace in the center for his knee. It's one of the many things Dick was given, and summarily taunted with, for his future recovery. Strapping on the brace, he fumbles a few times with a growing headache. Doesn't look at the pill bottle less than a foot away, only shoves his leg off the side and takes the plain cane.  
  
It's, for lack of a more eloquent word, the weirdest feeling Dick's ever experienced. The bars force his legs straight while taking most of his weight off his weak knee. It hurts, god does it hurt. Whatever weight his leg does manage to still support has him shaking, the pain itself momentarily blinds him in a rush of black spots across his eyes. He weathers it only through sheer stubbornness, hands clutching the top of the cane as he adjusts to the feeling. When it passes he's panting and sweating profusely but stays on his feet.  
  
A wide grin spreads across his face with a breathless laugh.  
  
He's doing it. He's _standing.  
  
_ There's, sure, more to the equation than just standing, he still has to walk, which could be a total disaster the moment he takes one step. That doesn’t matter, yet at least, all he's content to do is simply stand there. To not have to lie down or be carried from various rooms. Stuck sitting or crawling whenever he wants to change position. He feels, fuck, better for the first time in a long time. Even with the agony eating up his leg his smile only stretches wider.  
  
Giddy, Dick takes a calming breath. "Alright, Grayson settle down. Not out of the woods yet."  
  
He takes one step forward with his uninjured leg. It goes easily, the support of the cane keeping him balanced as he does. A laugh bubbles out of his throat. This is what toddlers must feel like--were babies still babies when they learned how to walk? Or was that when they finally crossed the line into toddler territory. He wobbles, terribly so, two hands on the cane while his injured foot drags behind. Nervous, tongue exceedingly dry in his mouth, he sucks in a breath and lifts his injured leg.  
  
It doesn't bend, not really, not with the help of the brace. It stings, so _so_ badly, the moment the muscles tug and stretch while he uses mostly his hips more than his leg to move. It doesn't exactly help make it any more comfortable--if anything Dick's vision whites out from the pain alone--before he's standing straight up again.  
  
Two steps. That's it, that's all he can manage before his body collapses. Only spares himself the shock of landing on the floor by reaching out to grab the edge of the mattress so he can land on his less sore side. Still, the moment he hits the floor a wail wrenches free from his throat. It burns so badly, body trying and failing to curl up. His braced leg lies awkwardly at his side, half beneath him.  
  
Jason bursts in a second later, running over to the side. "Oh, you absolute fucking _moron."  
  
_ Can't respond; too busy sucking in shallow, wheezing breaths. Jason shakes his head, but quickly steps out of the room, only to return a moment later, syringe in hand. "Can't even leave you alone for a night, what the hell is wrong with you."  
  
Dick only laughs when Jason jabs his stomach with the injection of Fentanyl. He can do this. He _will_ walk again.

* * *

Normal human behavior would inform you of this. If someone get's horribly injured, suffering every minute they spend not medicated in agonizing pain, falls out of bed in a medical device clearly made for further torture--sure, okay, you can go on and on about how great the leg braces were for polio, they still look to Jason like something out of _Saw--_ they are within their rights to be grouchy. Hell, Jason would take hell-raising anger, the same kind that made him go after Bruce years after his return from death. That's normal, that's expected.  
  
Dick, apparently, has fun being an anomaly, because his spill from the bed doesn't make him angry. It makes him awfully _happy._  
  
No, not happy. Ecstatic, elated, rapturous, fuck if Jason can think of another descriptive term. Whatever it is, Dick's that. He hardly complains when Jason cleans him up, rubbing him down with a washcloth and putting on some halfway decent clothes. Stares wistfully at the leg brace Jason's taken the liberty to tuck away in the closet. No more misadventures, Jason can't believe he even left it in the same room for so long. Figures Dick would try and make use of it.  
  
But, God is it nice to not have an angry Dick for once. No snappy comebacks, no refusals to be helped and then asking Jason for aid a second later. It's like he's working with a lovesick puppy, only the object of affection isn't a person. It's not even that nice of a leg brace, just your standard, Walmart looking thing. To Dick, with his half-lidded gaze, it's like seeing Kori in swimwear. Enticing and entirely out of reach.  
  
At least _, now,_ it is.  
  
He eats the breakfast Jason makes him. All he can manage without a single complaint. Nothing about Jason's apparently horrendous cooking--like he didn't take dozens of lessons under Alfred's watchful eye before and after his death--or the rolling of his stomach. It's like some yawning pit has opened in Dick's gut that drives him to inhale his breakfast. He has to scoop Dick's plate up before he starts licking it once the last bit of egg has been scrapped away.  
  
It's different. Extremely so after the last month of, mostly negative, mood swings and shuttered away behavior. Dick actually starts to seem like himself again. Kinda makes Jason hope Dick falls out of bed more often.  
  
It's a shame Jason can't bask in the pleasure of the "nice" Dick for long. The delight is quickly snuffed out rather awfully. He passes the calendar in the kitchen and realizes it's only two days until the Gala. That crept up fast. It wasn't like he was counting down the days either.  
  
Jason has no clothes to wear, none that fit the unwritten dress code of the evening anyway. He's not about to push his new "neutral" stance with Tim anytime soon either. God knows how it would make the entire Wayne family look if their newly returned omega walked in with biker leathers and muddy boots. Bruce would probably hear about it from whatever backwater planet he was currently hiding out on anyway.  
  
Which means Jason's going to have to go shopping. _Ugh._ He'd rather take the explosion in Havana all over again if it meant getting out of that.  
  
How to break it to Dick though without ruining his good mood? They are getting low on eggs, milk, and Dick's been less restrictive when it comes to chores than a week ago. However, Jason hasn't exactly had the time to take advantage of that what with ferrying Dick to and from doctor appointments. Maybe Dick won't be that suspicious about Jason going out on his own. Definitely take his time to do a little snooping around False Face Society bars as he goes around finding a new suit.  
  
Or whatever omegas wear.  
  
Jason tugs at his shirt collar. The room has been dreadfully hot ever since he woke up that morning, a growing irritation that festers away in the back of his skull. A pool of something in the base of his gut, anxious tension most likely, gnaws away at his nerves the longer the day goes on. _At the thought of the Gala, surely._  
  
There's a creak of metal, Dick rolling into the kitchen behind him. "I'm going to take a bath. We're going to have to go out and find you something to wear for the Gala today."  
  
Oh.  
  
_Oh no._  
  
Jason would, in any other world that wasn't as hideously fucked as theirs, laugh and say absolutely the fuck not. Instead, after almost choking on his tongue, tentatively glances at Dick. "I think it would be better if I went by myself."  
  
Dick, with some careful maneuvering, opens the fridge. The expression on his face doesn't change--hopefully a good sign--as he picks around and pulls out a banana. "Better or not doesn't matter really. I need a new suit and we have to buy you a collar, which you'd conveniently forget if you went out on your own."

Jason does almost swallow his tongue this time. Dick peels the banana as Jason leans over the sink coughing into the dirty water and dishes. "It doesn't matter how we feel about it, you know how traditional and catty the men and women are in Old Gotham. We're lucky they haven't started calling Vicki herself."  
  
"I am not wearing a collar." Jason's hand reaches up to curl loosely around his throat.  
  
Dick glances at him, tired but not yet angry. Already preparing for a fight. "You'll have to. All omegas do. Amy's already gotten on my ass about not having submitted your paperwork to the Blüdhaven police department yet."  
  
Paperwork. There's paperwork on him. Two months ago the only thing on paper about him was his death in Qurac, now there's paperwork on him that needs to be filed to the police department. Like he's a licensed pet with animal control. Does he get missing posters looking all sad at the camera if he goes missing now too? He's probably lucky the police haven't asked for an identification chip inserted beneath his skin.  
  
"I don't want to wear a collar," his voice cracks without meaning, it just does. Shuddering as he forces the words out, Jason ducks his head and rubs his arms.  
  
Dick, for what it's worth, doesn't attack him. He only fixes Jason with a slight stare, studying his face that it makes Jason duck away after another moment.  
  
"For what it's worth, Jason, I don't care for it either," Dick says. "Tim told me that's the requirement. It doesn't have to be some, ugly, gaudy thing either, no reason to make you more uncomfortable than you already are. We'll find something nice."  
  
That's the best Jason is going to get. Better not to piss off Dick anymore. There's no telling what or when that good mood will disappear. The worse Dick's mood, the more likely Dick will choose an outfit that's terrible on purpose. The memory of that night a week ago, being forced to strip nude and stand on display comes to mind.  
  
Swallowing past the lump in his throat Jason ducks his head. "Fine."  
  
Busying himself with the dirty dishes, Jason pushes away any remaining thoughts of the Gala. Not of the possible men and women that might--well, _will_ now that Jason's been exposed--attend that party to gawk and leer at him. Instead, he diverts his attention to scrubbing every piece of hardened egg from the glass plates. Hoping the mental exhaustion leaves the rest of the day a little more palatable.

* * *

There's no reason the leave Blüdhaven to shop for clothes anymore. Although the city is still moderately less luxurious than the practically gold-lined streets of Old Gotham, the rising number of casinos has brought the wealth back. Dior, Chanel, Giorgio Armani, and more designers all have their own little storefronts on Blüdhaven's strip nestled amongst the neon-lit casinos. Crowds of people, not just men and women down on their luck looking to make a dime offering their services to crime families, walk to and from the casinos and high-end restaurants in the latest fashion.  
  
It's louder than Old Gotham, that's for sure, drawing a lot more of the young than the old. But it's nice, especially when the man that bumps into Jason only flashes him a drunk smile and a "sorry, man" pockets clacking with won--maybe stolen--poker chips.  
  
Dick, likewise, flourishes after their hellish descent from his apartment. He's gotten a bit of his strength back now so he's able to move for short periods of time without Jason's help. Wheeling himself around, Dick, for the moment, just looks. Stares at the unlit, but no less distinctive, signs that jut out over the road or at the people that part around him. Follows shining backs of cars on the road and mutters the make and model of some of the more distinctive brands. Mostly he just basks in the sunlight, face tilted up at the blue stretch of sky while the sun beats down on his now pale skin.  
  
It goes without saying, how much Dick misses being apart of the world, stuck away in his apartment. Dick's not meant for long periods of inactivity. He is meant to be apart of the world the same way Jason is meant to stay out of it. Though he smiles a little to himself and ignores the impending torture that will be trying on clothes. For the moment lets himself get swept up in Dick's own joy.  
  
It leaves the moment they walk into the first place.  
  
Jason hasn't been in many designer stores in his life. Most of his shopping was done in off brand or discount shops, or, if he was lucky, Goodwill if it was close enough. Money was never a problem, per say, but he didn't see the point in spending it on fashionable clothes that, more often than not, ended up destroyed or forgotten in an alley for a quick change. The boutique itself is rather spacious, open with only a few racks along the illuminated marble walls. Three women and one men wearing all black, form-fitting clothes, instantly flock to them.  
  
Apparently saying "just browsing" isn't a thing. The eldest clerk, a woman with blonde-white hair tucked into a bun, escorts them to the back wall where the abysmally small selection of omegan fashion is. Jason assumes, instantly, it's to watch them to make sure he doesn't try to steal any of the clothes.  
  
That's until she starts fawning over the fact Richard Grayson is in her store. Right, it's like living with a Kardashian sister.  
  
The clothes are even worse than the ones Alfred gave him. All of them are light-colored, dainty things that are sheer enough Jason can see the texture of the marble wall behind them. Jason's not exactly ashamed of his body, but he doesn't need people knowing he has a faint mole above his left nipple.  
  
There's also the years worth of self-hatred stored up in the back of his mind that he doesn't want to touch yet either.  
  
"I," Jason says when the clerk asks him what he'd like to try on first. How do you say 'fuck no' in a way that isn't completely offensive? "Do you have anything more," he struggles to find a proper word. "Sturdy?"  
  
The clerk tilts her head and glances down to Dick. "These are from Francis Montesinos latest summer line."  
  
Oh. Right. Forget he was even here. Jason huffs under his breath and brushes his finger along the hem of the nearest shirt. It's long sleeved, weightless like nylon stocking, and a nude color. The one besides it is white with a lace floral pattern that purposefully curves around the upper body before traveling down the sides. The other shirts are all equally similar in appearance so if Jason's going to be force to wear that for the Gala it better come with a coat.  
  
Dick takes a little longer to respond. Jason can feel his eyes heavy on his back when he leans forward to touch the shirts. Shifting his weight, Jason shows Dick more of his back so he can hide most of his disgust.  
  
"Maybe something in black?"  
  
The clerk nods, heels clicking across the tile floor as she slips into the backroom.  
  
"You're going to have to pick something," Dick says, because he cannot let a minute go by silently. "I can only do so much."  
  
Jason grimaces as he tries to imagine himself in any of these shirts. Immediately drops a hand to wrap around his stomach at the thought of it's soft curve bared and obvious. “If it's all the same to you I'd rather not show up to the Gala naked for everyone to gawk at."  
  
Dick wheels forward to touch one of the shirts. "This is standard omega fashion."  
  
"Ok, but is it omega fashion or someone who thinks they know what omegas like and are calling it "omega fashion." Jason scowls. As if there were any omega designers to _make_ omega fashion in the first place.  
  
Dick sighs. "Do you want me to apologize for everything the world does that I cannot control? If you want to show up in jeans and jacket that's fine, but you bet Vicki Vale and the rest of them are going to start poking around wondering why you're "acting strangely" instead of just writing you off as another rich, omegan heir."  
  
Scrunching his nose, Jason turns away from the shirts, to stare outside and glare at the crowd with immense jealousy. The clerk comes back with an equally offensive sheer and lacy black shirt that she presents to Dick to cluck over. It would be so easy to dart through the doors of the store right now. Just run and run. Leave Dick behind. No one would catch him. He'd disappear and go somewhere cold, really cold. Hide under layers upon layers of over-stuffed jackets and freeze spitefully to death.  
  
They don't buy anything from that boutique, much to the clerk's disappointment.  
  
The next few shops are a lot of the same. A clerk welcomes them and walks them through their new lines for sale, tells them who designed them--as if anyone would care--as well as the pitifully small omega section at the back of the shop. The clothes are in every way identical. Then again most omegas, in the public eye, are identical. Light colors, sheer material with either floral or intricate patterns of lace that artfully cover nothing. The pants are all two sizes too tight that stretch obscenely around his thighs and ass.  
  
"Your omega has wonderful thighs," one male clerk says. Jason is standing half hidden behind the thick, red, velvet curtain that obscures the dressing room beyond it. Behind him his mirror image is brightly lit from several angles that cast shadows on the curve of his despised hips. "Most like omegas slim, but it really draws attention to his narrow waist."  
  
The only thing that keeps Jason from jumping over Dick to crush the man's throat with said thighs is the reproachful glance Dick gives him. Thoroughly abashed Jason ducks back behind the curtain to spend the next five minutes wrangling the sausage casing the bastard called "pants" off.  
  
It's clear to Jason, after they spend at least four hours ducking in and out of stores, trying on then taking off clothes, there is going to be nothing that makes him feel comfortable. The problem originates entirely from the fact that Jason now has to play a "Wayne" role. Dick and Bruce are airheaded pretty boys who have too much time and not enough brains. Damian and Tim are the only ones who retain a semblance to their actual personalities in the public as a "Wayne."  
  
Jason had been too young at the time to be anything more than Jason Todd, freshly adopted, lucky, street rat. The major parts of his personality that had been disclosed to the papers were that of a shy boy who was still learning to navigate a world where there were three forks served along with dinner. Even now he still doesn't know the difference between spoons. Saved his tantrums for behind closed doors and his less-than-stellar conduct for Alfred's saintly patience. After Bruce found out he was an omega he was more willing, perhaps even relieved, to let Jason stay home rather than attend parties or plays. Looking back on it now maybe he should have questioned Bruce's ease with hiding him away when it had often been such a fight to drag him out before.  
  
Now, now it's a little, well a lot, more complicated. Jason needs to be seen in the public eye. If he goes missing again as an omega it's not just a bunch of gossip column reporters that are going to care. The family will face non-stop harassment by news outlets and the government about his disappearance. Jason can play the part of an introverted, shy omega, but it will take a while for his attendance at major events to be overlooked.  
  
Of course, the easy way to speed up the process would be to find and marry a potential suitor. Most people tend to lose interest in a bonded omega, no longer available and, most likely, tucked away in their home watching whatever children they manage to successfully carry. That option will never be available to him, nor does he want it. Stricken it from the list then. Jason will have to be boring. Another omegan cut out like the rest of them in their sheer shirts and too-tight pants ducking their head at every passing person with a "yes, sir" or "no, ma'am."  
  
Tossing the pants in the corner of changing room is a small rebellion that makes him feel no better. Neither does spurning the hand offered to him by the man and pushing Dick out of the store before he is forced to try on something else.  
  
"We have to get you something," Dick speaks after they've walked for nearly five minutes of absolute silence. The only sounds that pass between them are a variety of car horns. Nothing, however, is able to drown out the stretching disquiet between the both of them. "This is who you are now."  
  
"I know that," and honestly, he doesn't want to spend the entirety of his day going in and out of shops. Trying to pretend like he can't hear what everyone is saying behind his back.  
  
"We've just about visited every shop on the strip. Think about what clothes were the least offensive and _I'll_ go in and buy them for you, alright?" While a great and noble sacrifice Jason's sure, he'd much rather be the one in charge of his own clothed fate. "We have to move on with our day. I need to submit my measurements to the tux shop. Luckily, they have their own designer collar section inside. Two birds one stone."  
  
Jason takes advantage of Dick's inability to see him to gag.

* * *

Shopping for omega clothing was, at it’s worse, uncomfortable. The amount of eyes on him, the pressure to make sure he didn't set off another one of Dick's petty rages, and the need for it to be over as soon as humanly possible had distracted him from the actual torture that was taking place currently.  
  
The suit shop is a luxurious, multi-level store that caters to everyone, save omegas. The "men" or suit section takes up the entirety of the bottom floor. Unlike the rest of the designer shops on the strip, the area is stuffed with displays of different selections. Everything from multiple designers to seasonal lines going all the way back to 2002. The staff walks around in black suits with ties no brighter than a richest shade of maroon. The second floor is devoted entirely to gowns and the cheapest piece of cloth in the entire shop is no less than a few thousand dollars.  
  
It makes Jason want to curl up and hide in the sewer out front, among the trash where he belongs.  
  
The clerks must sense that, Jason's incapacity to cope with things that are criminal in their grandiose-ness. They aren't in for any longer than a second before they inundated with a number of finely dressed, young men. Eager to please does little to compare to the frothing need the salesmen have to cater to their whims.  
  
They recognize Dick, as everyone does. Ask him how he's doing in that shallow way that most employees use for repeat buyers. Dick's smile is less tight and answers a touch more genuinely. More so than what he afforded the men and women that had come to offer condolences in person.  
  
"We'll have to take new measurements," one of the men, older with Alfred-perfect posture, doesn't conceal his disgust when tugging at Dick's sleeve. The very notion of touching anything that costs less than two hundred dollars being offensive. "Will your omega be alright on his own?"  
  
Jason drowns them out after that. Dick says something agreeable because the men don't bother him once they've transported Dick off to whatever magical place it is they take someone's measurements. Steadily ignoring the siren’s call for the exit door, Jason walks around the suits. He was never that fashionable of a person but the suits are a lot thicker than the omega shirts so he likes them infinitely more. He feels, at points, a lot like a child clutching at Bruce's jacket sleeve the first time he had taken Jason to get his first suit.  
  
The sea of patterns and perfectly cut cloth had been an overwhelming sea that haunted his nightmares for evenings after. Getting lost in an ocean of similarity, doomed to follow the path that had been already laid out for him. _Ugh_. A lot of his night terrors often involved philosophical debates on the strangest things. Clothing, for whatever reason, still prevails as re-occurring character in most of them. The explanation still, obviously, eludes him as do most rationalizations for intrusive thoughts.  
  
"Mr. Todd?"  
  
The voice is light, feminine and reminds Jason of his own mother. The woman who owns it is a lot younger and a lot less dead. Dark, frizzy ringlets frame her soft face and she wears a stylish suit with a golden ascot around her neck. She offers a dainty hand, smiling when Jason takes it with a gentle shake. "You _are_ a shy one."  
  
Jason flushes. The woman laughs and touches his shoulder. The light skim of her fingers against the back of his neck sends sparks of something unidentifiable, yet tantalizingly warm along the length of his spine. A noise that would be hard to explain, should it escape, rises in his throat so he pushes away from her touch. Perhaps that is the wrong word. Leaps away would be a better description.  
  
The woman doesn't seem to mind his abnormal response and laughs, a beautiful, light sound. "And so tense. It's no wonder Mr. Grayson hasn't managed to find a collar for you yet."  
  
"No that's-wrong," he says, words coming out as a drunk-like slur. Odd. He tries to clear his throat but the woman brushes her fingers along his neck again and all that comes out is an embarrassing, little purr. "I just don't like 'em."  
  
"I can see why, no one ever taught you the proper way to be greeted as an omega huh?" Clucking her tongue, she continues her delicious assault against the sensitive portion of Jason's neck. One that he never even knew he had--and will absolutely never leave unprotected again. "But you never really had the chance to learn either, I suppose."  
  
Her name is Maureen. She’s the resident jeweler in the shop. Most of the omegas that can afford it see her for fittings or, at the very least, consultations. Jason can certainly see why. The tenderness of her touch nearly reduces him to a puddle on the floor. She calls it scruffing.  
  
"Isn't that what animals do," she's led Jason over to the counter of her own little section in the store. It's near the second entrance, one that faces the large glowing lights of a sea-themed casino. The bright, green eye of the electronic kraken glares down at Jason through the wide glass doors to his immediate left.  
  
"Yes, but humans are just another animal. Everyone can be scruffed. It's just that majority of people have lost their sensitivity in the back of their neck over the ages. Omegas, on the other hand, still possess a number of sensory tissues in comparison. You're very lucky."  
  
Jason doesn't feel all that lucky to be honest. Doesn't see the need to be rude to his only companion either so he says nothing. "Oh."  
  
"It's the main reason omegas wear collars," Maureen smiles. "No need to worry about some stranger coming up and grabbing at your neck to make you weak-kneed with a collar in the way."  
  
Again, Jason would like to point out that even if that is the "publicly-accepted" reason as to why omegas need collars that everyone and their mother uses it as a claim. That, however, would lose him a decent conversation and the chance to find a nice collar that fits him rather than whatever atrocity Dickie Grayson might select.  
  
The collars on display in the glass case are, like Jason feared, flashy pieces with precious stones the size of his pinkie nail dotted in spiraling patterns in white or plain gold. There are designer logos he recognizes; Chanel, Louis Vuitton, Versace, Fendi, among dozens of others. Jason barely gives any of them a second glance save for the initial cringe at the price tag that sits beneath them. None of them are exactly _awful._ Designer clothing hardly offends Jason at the basic level. They are always, if anything, nothing more than what they are; clothes. Not Jason's style, certainly, but few of those men and women who create the lines are starting to see the appeal of his own dumpster, garbage tastes.  
  
It's the extraordinary price that simply comes from the name of the creator.  
  
Maureen stares at him, bubbling with palpable excitement from what she assumes must be shared desired. An omega selecting their first collar, that's a "special occasion." She will make an obscenely huge commission on it too. There's no use blaming a person for delighting in capitalism when it benefits them. Unless they are a money-hungry, wall-street leech. Then there's no reason why he can't play Robin Hood with their cash.  
  
Here, however, he is nothing more than another pawn in the system.   
  
Fumbling with his words, Jason glances over the collars once more. "I, do you have anything a little simpler?"  
  
"A leather collar, designer doesn't matter, just bring the lot out."  
  
Dick, paler than before, joins Jason at his side. A light sheen of sweat covers his forehead and he barely pays any mind to Maureen as she dips her head and excuses herself to duck below the counter. Brushing his bangs back, Dick smiles up at Jason, a pained, tight thing. "I'm going to need you to promise me you won't do anything terrible."  
  
Tone too casual, Jason's back, formerly loose from Maureen's fondling, goes rigid. There are a number of things that could provoke a worrying response from Dick. Worry, of course, over how Jason will choose to react--which is measured on a scale to irritating shit remarks to having a full-blown Red-Hood-Returning-To-Gotham-Revenge display of wrath. Neither reflects well on Jason or the family.  
  
He opens his mouth to ask what the situation is but he hears the click-click-click of oxfords on the tile floor.  
  
Gotham, and to a much greater extent Blüdhaven, do not have a lot of celebrities. At least in the proper "Hollywood" sense of the term. Their celebrities aren't known for their vast wealth and dalliances of doing next to nothing save for posting risqué pictures on social media. That only extends as far as the Wayne family, the Kardashians, at least to the public, of the East Coast. The rest of them fall on two very contrasting lines; "hero" or "suspected major criminal." Batman and his Robins remain firmly on one side, if not dabbling towards petty villainy where certain detectives are concerned--here's to looking at you Bullock. The rest of the enormous list of the Gotham Rogues Gallery lay entirely on the "infamous" side of notoriety.  
  
As such, most of the public, especially those trained under Bruce's impressively deep paranoia have come recognize trademarks with trepidation equal to the response of Pavlov's dog and bell experiment. A hyena laugh garners screams. The tinkling of a metal coin ringing will invoke pants-pissing anxiety. The click-step-step-click does not possess that gut wrenching of a response as either former, but Jason's stomach drops down to the soles of his shoes anyway.  
  
Because if there's one thing he didn't on this shitstain of an afternoon it was an interruption by a _Mr. Oswald Cobblepot._  
  
"Mr. Grayson," Oswald croons in that nasally voice of his. "I'm glad to see you're doing fine."  
  
Dick turns, as best he can in his chair, to face Oz wherever he stands behind the two of them. Jason does not. It's simpler, for his growing ire, to ignore Oz and, judging by the way the air around him shifts, the goons Oz brought along. It's moments like these, and only moments like these, where Jason is grateful for his biological designation. The expectation of his submission comes with a bowl-full of underestimating, especially from those that try to outsmart or overpower him. It's one of the reasons he was so successful as Robin, despite no one knowing his inherent status.  
  
People are animals, and mice are aware of birds the same way the birds are aware of mice. Instincts, no matter how civilized society becomes, are hard things to override. Thousands of years of evolution will not be undone by several hundred years of polite society or the invention of a napkin. Jason is, though he disagrees, quarry to the world's population. His gut, at the arrival of the men, warns him to flee, his own stance widening in preparation.  
  
He remains, not because he is stupid, but because he's taught himself how to deal with predators.  
  
"Oz," Dick chirps back. Voice tight, only to those that know him well enough to pick up on that specific tone, takes the brunt of Oswald's attention. "What are you doing so far outside Gotham?"  
  
"Business," Oswald is the best informant they have on his own illegal dealings. The man is incapable of keeping himself humble. "Casino acquisition and all that. I can see why you moved to Blüdhaven, rising star on the East Coast. Surprised your caretaker didn't do the same."  
  
"Yes, well, Bruce has never really been interested in gambling. It's all rather boring to him."  
  
Maureen pops up from the other side of her counter. In her arms is a large, mahogany box lined with red velvet. Inside are rows of collars. None as grotesque as the ones on display in the front window, thank _God_. They are all dark, rich leather bands with gold or silver buckles and threaded accents. A few are embedded with large, decorative pearls while others are just stitched in the logo of a popular designer. While they certainly are a step up in offending Jason's inherent preferences the collars are still well on the far end of outrageous.  
  
"Go ahead and try on whatever you like," Maureen smiles behind him. "Mr. Cobblepot, how are you?"  
  
"Outstanding, my dear, just here to collect my cufflinks."  
  
Maureen nods, tells Oz she has to fetch them from the back leaving the three--not including Oswald's "friends"--alone at the counter. Jason tugs at the collar of his shirt. The entire day has been uncomfortably hot, the four or so men behind him are walls of heat beating down on his sweating back. The faint scent of smoke, acrid and lip curling, catches in his twitching nose bringing further unease to his rolling stomach.  
  
The pointed end of the wooden spoke of an umbrella taps against his chin. It's uncomfortable in itself. The end is sharpened to a piercing point if Oswald feels so inclined to deliver any more pressure to draw blood. Jason, as does everyone who's interacted with both Oswald and Penguin, knows the inherent danger of the hollow-point bullets stuffed into the cane, to not make a fuss when Oz drags his chin over.  
  
Oswald, smug as a pig in mud, stands there, flanked by two men that might as well be Arnold Schwarzenegger's clones. The height difference is astounding, Jason either has to commit to looking up at either goon, bursting out of their black and white suits, or down to meet Oz's salacious leer he drags up and down Jason's body. Oz's umbrella is what breaks the tie, considering neither men are pointing guns at him the same way Oz is.  
  
Dick is tense beside them, hands like talons gripping the edge of his armrests. Apprehension flitters in blue flashes across his eyes, darting back and forth between then group. The worry Dick has is not for Jason's safety.  
  
It's solely for Oz's.  
  
"Rather big for an omega isn't he?" Oswald pushes Jason's chin to either side, forcing him to tilt to the right and left. Jason, within the few weeks after Dick's admittance to the hospital, was dealt all kinds of assessing looks from Gotham's populace. The _National Enquirer_ , after they were done running headlines that Jason had spent the last six years in the President's alien sex cult, ran a popular story that Jason had run away to receive experimental hormone treatment.  
  
Now a normal person with average or so intelligence would take said headline and the name of the publication as being synonymous with outlandish tales that weren't fit for even popular fiction novels and disregard it. That's until Jack Ryder got a hold of it and ran his own story like it was going out of style. Now Jason's apparently seen a doctor, according to _Gotham Post,_ weekly for hormone injections. Most omegas aren't inclined to have body types that are small and dainty, it's just what everyone else wants omegas to look like. The only thing their hormones tell their body is the same thing it'd tell any body with a uterus.  
  
Hold onto fat a little harder because who knows, one day some parasitic little cling-on some folks call a "baby" might start feeding off that storage.  
  
But the story is a little easier to accept than Vale's "Kidnapped and Sold to Middle Eastern Sex Cult." He hopes Talia got a laugh out of that one.  
  
One of the goons--both are practically identical save for the subtle difference in their skin tone and the thicker mustache the man on his right side has--Mustache steps a little closer, which is already way too close for Jason's liking. His upper lip curls on instinct and he takes a step back right into the glass case for the collars.  
  
Oswald all but purrs, "Shy too. I can see why you all kept him tucked away for so long."  
  
Jason bites his tongue hard enough to fill his mouth with the warm taste of copper. Free of the umbrella, the most pressing threat now lies in the shape of the two mooks. Lefty starts circling, coming as close as he can before he hits case. Dick, nearby, watches the two of them intensely, eyes flicking between both men and then their very vulnerable kneecaps.  
  
Righty steps closer and blocks Dick from view, leaving Jason with nothing to see but too very large men.  
  
"Finally getting your, mutt a collar. About time," Oswald goes on to say. "Wouldn't want him running off again. If I were you I'd get a chip put in, that way you'd always know where he was."  
  
Jason doesn't get to hear Dick's response. More accurately he doesn't pay attention to Dick's response over the blood rushing in his ears. Righty and Lefty are walls of solid muscle in front of him with Oswald's voice a vexing drone on par with an extreme case of tinnitus. Nothing comes out of his mouth that is worth listening to, just vulgarities about omegas and their bodies. He asks Dick about Jason's cunt, and if it's better than any of the models Dick used to date. It's degrading and offensive and the itch that's been crawling underneath his skin since waking up that morning worsens immensely.  
  
Lefty leans in a little closer, less than a few inches away. Takes an audible, drawn-in breath to where Jason can smell the faint trace of mint gum. "All omegas smell as good as you, or is that just how Wayne likes you?"  
  
A hand, too hot and too big lands square on his ass cheek. Righty leans in, nose brushing right across that damn spot on his neck to rumble in his ear. "Word is you grew up in Crime Alley like us. Want to show us how you got _Bruce Wayne_ to take you home?"

* * *

Dick operates on a system of truths. The biggest truth is, thankfully, often the simplest. Gut instinct is not, if ever, wrong. The distressing, subconscious actuality that operates itself on half-buried instincts has only one absolute purpose; survival. Dick's mother taught him, when he first started learning the hazards of the trapeze wire, that in their line of work your gut is the difference between life and death.  
  
He ignored it once. The result was a snapped wire and both of his parents six feet in the ground.  
  
When Dick sees Oswald, after coming out of the fitting room, throwing open the doors of _Edmund's Suits and Gowns_ his stomach clenches so viciously it leaves him breathless. His own fatigue that had been steadily rising ever since he left the apartment with Jason is wiped away in a sudden shot of adrenaline. It hits him as hard and fast as a bullet, making him grip the wheels of his chair and race them through the racks of suits and shirts to find Jason.  
  
No one needs a drawn out fight in the middle of the Blüdhaven strip because Oswald has as much decorum as a Hell's Angel biker in _Hooters.  
  
_ It's luck that he manages to find Jason first. Oz had been heading in a straight line in the same direction and it is such a awful coincidence Jason is at the end of the line for the two of them. Dick can only imagine how aggravated Jason already is from trying on a string of increasingly revealing shirts and pants. Oswald is the equivalent of a full on nuclear strike at this point. He can only hope Oswald manages to be less of a prick for at least as long as it takes for them to select a collar.  
  
Spoiler alert, neither Oswald nor his cronies are.  
  
Oswald's mid-sentence about how well Jason's legs must wrap around his neck, with a flexibility even Dick doesn't possess. Dick is forced to look at him now that they're effectively eye-level with one another, forced smile practically splitting apart his cheeks when he sees the mook on the right settle a hand on Jason's ass.  
  
Then has the audacity to pinch it.  
  
There is no need to bother holding the smile any longer as tired resignation, peppered with a little bit of self-satisfaction, blankets over his face. Dick easily predicts the series of events that leads up to Jason turning around and breaking the man's wrist that touched him. The sickening snap of bones is louder than the howl that wrenches free of Righty's throat. Oz jumps, thoroughly startled, beside him.  
  
Lefty, though his face is pale, grabs Jason's shirt the moment Righty drops to cradle his useless hand. Jason responds appropriately. Taking the man's wrist, he yanks Lefty forward so hard he completely separates his arm from his socket. And, because Oswald still hasn't broken out of his stupor, kicks Righty over before leaping on top of his massive chest. Raises his foot above Righty's face and hesitates for a second.  
  
Dick considers telling him to stop, but he doesn't. Instead, he sits there watching with immense pleasure as Jason tattoos the imprint of his shoe onto the man's face. It's around that time that Cobblepot's woken up enough to raise his dangerous, little toy umbrella right at Jason's back. Dick reacts swiftly, tearing the umbrella from his hands. A sudden wave of rage crashes over his head so hard it leaves Dick so infuriated he manages to snap the umbrella over his good knee. Bullets slip out of the umbrella, tinkling across the tile floor.  
  
Oswald blanches. "You-" he stares at the umbrella and Jason, who's now standing close enough that Dick can feel the resentment rolling off him in potent, dominating waves. "You would allow your mongrel to do this to my men?"  
  
" _Yes,"_ Dick says. The word is so precise and so frank Oswald stumbles like Dick's stood up from his chair and slapped him across the face. "I would allow him to do it if any man or woman insulted him to my _face_ and then assaulted him in front of me, his own _guardian."  
  
_ The law is on their side, Oswald would, at the maximum, be slapped with a fine for his behavior as well earn a mark in the court of public opinion. That doesn't mean Dick or Jason is safe when it comes to criminality, the fact that Jason, in his public persona no less, just assaulted Oswald's men in broad daylight and Dick encouraged him, will make them targets. Birds of a feather, Dick knows he will regret this come tomorrow or whenever Tim decides to lecture him on the importance of keeping a low profile now when the news is watching their every move. Especially, considering the rogues, no matter how much they fight, tend to look out for their own.  
  
However. _However.  
  
_ Now? Now there is nothing better than watching Oswald struggle to pick up his injured men all the while keeping Dick and Jason in his sights. Even better when he stutters out an apology to Maureen when she finally returns from the backroom with his cufflinks for the mess on the floor.  
  
This is going to be trouble. It's stupid to piss off any villain, but one that goes after their private persona rather than their public, flashy one is insanely dumb. Dick's gut rolls and tightens horrifically in his stomach but he ignores it. Shoves it down and instead looks back up at Jason.  
  
Jason, hair slightly a mess, cheeks a light pink, watching Dick with the strangest look of bemusement he's ever seen on a man.  
  
"Were you able to choose a collar?" Maureen interrupts. Dick blinks and glances back at her, then the box sitting on the counter.  
  
"Ah, not yet."  
  
"Take your time." She smiles and leaves them standing there to speak with another man who's wandered up to the counter. He'd question her sanity, after literally seeing bullets fall out of a man's broken umbrella. But this is Blüdhaven, there has been stranger.   
  
Silent, Jason walks around Dick's chair until they are side by side. He gazes down towards the collars appearing engrossed in the selection he's been offered. His eyes, however, are a stormy ocean blue; troubled with the knowledge of something Dick has no privy too. His own thoughts fade from the forefront of his mind as exhaustion decides to remind him of how tired he really is.  
  
The collars Maureen has left them with are nice. All thick leather completely free of scuffmarks, some with beautifully accented threading, and others with pearls and golden O-rings at the center. All of them would look beautiful on Jason's neck because, hell, Jason is handsome, omega or not. Cheeks pink from exertion still, hands clenching and unclenching at his side, it surprises Dick how he'd never seen it before. How anyone would be able to refuse Jason's requests, especially with knowing how genially authoritative he naturally is. How dangerous Jason could be if he one day decided to weaponize what biology and genes had delivered him. Few would say no.  
  
Jason would never. Not because it is against his own code of conduct, or some justification of behavior, Jason understands the lines people will cross in war. As a child he had been one of them after all.   
  
No. It is because Jason is not that kind of an omega, that kind of a man, that would be possessed to use his body as a tool to garner what he wanted. Dick does not know how different Jason was raised as an omega. He doesn't see the world the same way Jason does and how strange it must be to be effectively treated like a child for the entirety of his life. What Dick does understand, however, is the importance that comes with autonomy. How degrading it is to need help washing his own body and to be watched with nervous eyes and open hands waiting for him to fail so someone else can do simple actions for him.  
  
It's something they both want and no longer own.   
  
None of the collars will fit Jason.  
  
Dick understands this instantly. They are too constrictive, too powerful a remainder of where Jason now stands and how loathe he is to his own body. How much Jason values his own space and how both of them will never be able to regain what Havana had cost them. It is an easy conclusion.   
  
He reaches out. One hand gripping the edge of the counter Dick, gritting his teeth, uses the last of his strength to force himself to his feet.  
  
Even with the medication it stings so awfully the pain nearly forces him back into his seat like a physical blow. He didn't realize how much the brace supported his weak leg and he learns, very quickly, how much weight it took off his acid-bitten muscles. Jason startles beside him.  
  
"Dick," he hisses and puts his hands on his waist. "Sit down before you hurt yourself."  
  
"I'm fine," he wheezes absolutely not fine. Jason knows that too. His hands don't leave Dick's waist as he stretches out his spine until he is upright, wobbling against the counter.  
  
"You're an idiot."  
  
"That's what people tell me." Dick glances over the collars again _. Too big. Too ugly. Too flashy. No. No.  
  
_ The collar Dick's eyes finally land on is thick with gold stitching in the pattern of a designer logo. It is the simplest one they have. Reaching out, Dick touches the interior with his fingers. It is padded with soft suede that glides beneath the course skin of his fingertips. He waves down Maureen.  
  
She beams when she sees his selection. "Would you like to try it on?"  
  
"Yeah," Dick says. "Do you have a knife?"  
  
Her smile fades. "Excuse me?"  
  
"Just a small one, any size really."  
  
"Dick," Jason warns from his side. His eyebrows pinch together and his posture stiffens from whatever he sees on Dick's face. "What are you doing?"  
  
Smiling, Dick holds a finger to his lips. After a little fumbling Maureen places a slim, sewing knife on the counter. "That.... It's a..."  
  
"I know," Dick says and takes the small little knife in his hands. The blade glints underneath the store lights and is feather light in his palms. "Don't worry, I’m buying it."  
  
_Technically, Bruce is, but I'd say that it's more than fair.  
  
_ The stitching doesn't take up a majority of the collar. Instead, it has two rather larger borders while the stitching runs along the middle. The clamp in the back will be rather big, Dick knows, but they can find a better collar in the future, one that Jason finds himself. For now, Dick takes the knife and pushes it through the leather at the bottom of the decorative stitching.  
  
Maureen audibly gasps. Dick doesn't have to see Jason to feel how cold the air's gone around him. No doubt this will be in the papers tomorrow morning. "Dick Grayson Meltdown Inside Designer Shop." Tim is going to have a cow. Damian will probably laugh and scold him for hours about the importance of acting at least partially sane in front of others. Dick, right now, focuses on making sure the cut is as even as possible. He takes his time, carefully sawing through the thick band to leave as even a cut as possible.  
  
When he finishes, slicing away the remaining fabric looped around the buckle he sets the knife down. The collar now is a thin strip of leather no bigger than his largest finger, with fraying strands of string left over from the stitching. Dick's legs shake beneath him as he fishes them out with his fingernails.  
  
"Jason," Dick speaks when he rests the final stray thread on the glass counter. "Come here."  
  
Jason does. Hesitant and nervous, shoulders slouched, head ducked, as he worriedly looks between Maureen and Dick. Gone is the man that defended himself from Oswald's men. All that's left is Jason Peter Todd, scared and uncertain.  
  
He's taller than Dick by a good several inches so Dick has to reach up to wrap the collar around his neck. Jason ducks his head, letting Dick see the buckle easily as he clips the two ends together. He shivers severely when Dick's fingers lightly graze the knobs of his spine pressing out against the skin of his neck.  
  
Dick drops his hands. Jason stands up straight, the collar a thin band of rich, dark brown no more noticeable on his neck beneath the folds of his shirt. Simple, now rough around the edges, and so perfectly Jason.   
  
There are no words of thanks given, not that Dick wants them. But he does see the stiff tension in Jason's shoulders slowly begin to release as Dick sits back in the wheelchair and pays for the collar. Jason purposefully catches his reflection in the store windows when they leave. He doesn't frown or hide away from what he sees.  
  
It's a small action. Hell, Dick's still engaging in the practices Jason's outright called tyrannical and morally unethical by doing this.  
  
But it's the act Dick hopes got through to Jason. The best olive branch he can give him.


	7. Overture

Hal Jordan used to be a man of absolutes. 

He knew there was no such thing as “black or white” mentality. Good and evil were a lot more complex than what the movies he used to watch as a child told him. That kind of thinking, that childlike naivety was snuffed out in a blistering fireball that scorched the traces of his father’s vaporized remains. That good men who have done nothing but exist, living their average lives to support their small families, can be taken from the world while crueler, eviler men are given dozens of second chances by some cosmic entity, delighted to watch others suffer. Karma doesn't exist and life is unfair.

That did not mean that the idea of absolute good and evil completely left him. Sure, he knew there was such a thing as morally gray—hell, what he does as a Lantern falls directly in that area on a daily, shit, _hourly_ basis—but he fell into a sort of category-organizational way of thinking beyond the lesson from childhood. That every action, every decision, could be sorted into four basic columns ranging from _good_ -good, to utterly evil. Hal had grown respecting authority, even if he didn’t always agree with its rules. He thought that most rules, or at least many of them, had a solid foundation firmly planted in factual justification. Whether it was the rules on Earth or the number of laws he had to enforce on the Guardians command.

That was, of course, until he met Oliver Queen. A few years after gallivanting across time and space with him, arguing over the rights of the majority versus the silent minority and things get a lot more complicated. 

Add to that one enormous, douche-bag, light entity-tapeworm controlling his every move for what felt like half a millennia and Hal Jordan is no longer a man that believes in the “accuracy” of an action being right or wrong. Let alone the issue of whether or not authority, even an organization represented by the universe’s symbol of righteousness, is something that should be listened to at all. 

Which is maybe why he, at least so far, is the only one to, vocally at least, question whether or not Bruce has decided to lose his mind during the months they’ve been out of contact. Hal understands he can lose track of time in space, but the last time he saw Bruce the man was considerably less of an asshole.

And that, obviously, is saying something. 

“You of all people,” Bruce says in that ridiculous, rasping baritone he selected as Batman’s speaking voice, “do not get to lecture me on the choices I make as a father.” 

Which, all right, granted is sort of a justified response. Hal isn’t a dad. Not only that, but he didn’t spend the early years of his hero career running around with a young boy as a sidekick/adopted ward. In fact, Hal alienated Kyle for a few years acting like a complete dictatorial psychopath. Then again, Hal had an excuse for being a complete asshole to the youngest human member of the Corps. See above, interstellar evil tapeworm. He doubts Bruce has the same dilemma in his case. 

There are things that go beyond a simple grounding, after all. Hal tries to imagine what it would feel like if Jack had put in charge of whether or not he was allowed to go to the supermarket. Never mind if he'd even be allowed to imagine being inside the cockpit of a jet. Hal grimaces.

 Dick, of course, is a far cry from his older brother, but Jack wasn't always a complete asshole before Mom died. Hal's not the only one who's heard it from a few former Titans about Nightwing's terrible temper either. Who knows how much his injury had affected him.

“I’m not.” Maybe Hal should have brought along someone else. He had assumed Bruce and Diana would be the best when it came to sorting through the constant arguments between New Genesis and Apokolips. You’d think with Darkseid out of the picture there would be a lot less war, but Orion’s had his hands full with half-brother Grayven since their father’s disappearance.

This includes his sibling leading an army of his father's parademons that are only about as useful as the intelligence of their leader. In Grayven’s case, there’s not a whole lot to work with.

“Maybe I don’t understand,” Hal tries de-escalation. Feigning ignorance where he knows he supposedly should have none always worked before. However, the men he fooled in the past had been stupider.  “I’ve never had kids, but even I know that tying up a dog in the yard with a one foot chain is a recipe for shit.”

 Bruce doesn’t turn to look at him. The Javelin isn’t even that spacious of a craft, but he manages it anyway, despite Hal being right there. Which is incredible, really, the amount of sheer douchebaggery a man can possess at his age. Bruce even denied the bigger option of a light construct ship. _I don’t trust anything I can’t control,_ and isn’t that just the bitch of all of Hal’s bat-shaped problems.

Diana sits not too far from the both of them in the third seat of the ship. She’s spent the last two hours it takes to ferry across the New Genesis surface staring at the stars of the foreign galaxy. It’s unusual for her to be so quiet, but to be honest, Hal wouldn’t mind taking back this entire conversation.

"I don't have to explain myself to anyone, let alone you."

Maybe Hal should have signed up for anger management with Dinah. Could make use of some of those nice breathing exercises right about now. "Sure you don't, just like I don't have to keep quiet on how much of a colossal ass I think you're being by literally forcing your ex-partner into the spotlight like a Kardashian daughter."

Bruce's mouth pinches a little tighter and Hal imagines that his eyes must be glaring holes through the cockpit window beneath the white eyes of his cowl. "Don't pretend like you know what I had to do. It's easy to cast judgment when you have no experience." 

Ha ha _haaaaa_. What a bastard. How in the world did half of the Eastern seaboard look up to this utter tool? "I may not know any omegas, but I know the difference between being concerned with someone's safety and being a controlling asshat."

"You don't know what you're talking about," Bruce snaps. "You don't have any idea what kind of situation I was in when I made that call. Jason is my responsibility, not yours; what gives you the right to argue with me over my choices? You don't even have the backbone to commit to a person, let alone an entire planetary sector. You don't get to tell me about responsibility and the consequences of my actions when no one questioned you after your return as _Parallax_."

Hal blinks once. It takes a lot to render him speechless, but Bruce seems to make the impossible a habit. Vivid red consumes his vision for a few, slow passing seconds where words are an impossibility. When he speaks he shocks himself with how calm his voice remains. "Listen, I know you and I have never really seen eye to eye, but there's a line that separates a person from being a run-of-the-mill asshole and a real bastard. You, Bats, crossed that line the first time you looked at your boy and decided to side on behalf of a bunch of assholes in suits—"

He doesn't use the ring. Not because Bruce catches him off-guard or because Bruce moves so fast Hal doesn't have time to prepare a block. He just doesn't stop it. It hurts, god does it hurt, without the small barrier the ring normally affords him. But he doesn't use his ring. Why? Because it's more ammunition for Bruce to throw back at him. First punch aside, however, free game. Something he intends to take full advantage of until Diana separates them.

Instead, Hal takes the punch, like he's done for a dozen others, and hits the floor of the Javelin, Bruce's malevolent shadow standing over him.

No words, only heavy breathing whistling through Bruce's clenched teeth. Hal massages his jaw with his thumb and props himself up on his elbow.

" _You_ ," Hal spits onto the floor, a red stain in a sea of gray. "You're a real piece of work."

"Stop talking."

Diana rises from her seat. She's taller than the both of them by a foot, at least, that she has to bend her knees so her head doesn't hit the top of the cockpit. Immediately, the temperature drops faster than diving headfirst into a tub full of ice water. She keeps a hand resting on the headrest of her seat, her fingers flex slightly, but it leaves behind deep, torn grooves in the leather. 

"Stop it," she says. "Both of you."

Hal shuts his mouth. Bruce stands up a tad bit straighter.

She drops her hand, fingers twitching against her thigh. Walking over to Hal's side, she drops to her knee. Doesn't ask if he's okay, but reaches out with a calloused hand and wipes away the blood that's started leaking from his busted lip.

"We are here to solve the problems concerning New Genesis and her people, not to argue between each other." Diana wipes Hal's blood off her fingers on her own armor. "Grayven will be pleased to see us so cross with one another. His lack of intelligence does not make him incapable of spotting weaknesses in a fractured whole. For the sake of New Genesis, and Earth if we should fail, we will have to wait to discuss Bruce's mistake when the dispute has been resolved."

 Okay, Bruce might have to punch him again. Diana agreeing with him? Yeah, on backwards world, maybe; that just doesn't happen. He looks up at her, at his blood on her pristine Amazonian armor, and the clench of her jaw. Sure, he's a founding member of the Justice League too, but he doesn't even come close to being on the same level as the three, big players. Clark isn't here to be a kiss ass, and Diana normally falls in with either one of them.

It's nice, better than nice, to have her on his side. Better to watch the subtle pinch in Bruce's brows when he realizes that Diana isn't playing along.

"Diana," Bruce starts.

"You should know." Diana turns the wrath of her growing steel-edged glare on Bruce. It's only a sweet mercy that her name isn't Medusa and she has a head full of writhing snakes. The stare she is shooting Bruce could have turned him to solid stone. "That where I come from, the wounds of servitude, though long ago, are still etched upon the backs of my sisters and mother. Your decision to connect your former Robins together by chains of circumstance concerns me. As does your decision to leave Earth when Clark or John could have gone in your stead, despite Hal's insistence."

Hal ducks his head when she turns to look at him. It's like having chocolate stains on your teeth in front of your mother, if your mother could fling you into the stratosphere with a flex of her pinkie. The amount of levity that comes when she turns back to Bruce draws a gasp from his mouth. Diana, perfect creature that she is, ignores him.

Bruce, on the other hand, displays no such restraint. "There wasn't time to discuss the conflict with Clark—"

"Hal could have held his own. You wanted to run, and so you did." Diana tilts her chin. "In their greatest moment of weakness, your _partners_ needed you, and you abandoned them on the basis of thoroughness to cover your guilt for a senseless decision. I have known you too long to believe otherwise."

Bruce, for probably the first time in his life, has nothing to say. No stoic, judgmental silence that hangs in the air, no snappy comeback that both demeans and insults someone's intelligence. Nothing. Bruce's jaw relaxes after a moment and he turns, sitting back down in his seat. The only sound that passes between then is the rumble of the Javelin's engines and the creak of leather. 

They keep quiet the rest of the flight. Hal silently stews in his own growing anger the longer he thinks about Bruce’s obnoxious self martyring. As if anyone knew how hard it was to constantly live the way omegas do. As if Wayne had the right to assume his decision was hard. As if Batman had to hide his designation from his own _League partners_ because some cosmic, all-powerful ring decided to choose an _omega_ out of the billions of other capable men and women on the entire planet.   
  
Hal closes his eyes.   
  
Maybe he’ll have a talk with Jason when he gets back. They have a lot in common after all. 

* * *

The morning of the gala Jason wakes to find his stomach's been replaced by a handful of writhing eels.

Too dramatic, you say? Jason thinks the fuck not. It might as well be a literal description for how twisted his guts are. Anxious energy bubbles so violently in his abdomen that Jason almost leaps from his bed, half-dazed from sleep, thinking it was on fire. Falling onto the floor helps wake him up a little, in the sense that the shock of it shuts up the screaming adrenaline in his blood for all of five seconds. Enough for him to take stock of the room and confirm no, he's not in an empty warehouse in the middle of a forgotten desert. In his hand is Talia's kris, fingers clenching so tight around the handle they've gone bone-white.

There's a strange noise that fills the room. The distressing wheeze of a kitten is the closest thing Jason can even compare it to. His heart flutters at the sound and he looks around, trying to locate the source of it. Finds it rather quickly when he tries to quiet his breath and realizes the noise is coming from him. It's so pathetic he very nearly considers crying about it.

The worst thing comes next. His entire body is covered in sweat. That isn't a joke. From the top of his head to the tips of his toes is sweat-slick, glistening under the dim lights of his room. The room itself is unbearably hot, it's no wonder his mind mistook it as a desert in his half-dead state. Inside, his stomach is still participating in its own little Olympics, jumping and tangling with his intestines. He's taken enough shit from the entire half of the family, he could really go without his body deciding it's its turn to lay on the pain.

He wants to throw up. As a matter of fact...

Jason stumbles onto his feet, knife clattering to the floor. Pushing open the door of his room, he clambers down the hall a few steps into the pristine guest bathroom. It's hardly big enough for him to stand up entirely. Barely gets the lid open before he's puking leftovers into the bowl along with a large amount of stomach bile. When he finishes his stomach turns on him and makes him do it again just to be that much of a prick.

_Goddamnit._

"Jason?"

Dick peeks down the hall. He's leaning against the wall, leg brace on—what a little shit—and a walking cane supporting most of his weight. His face is beginning to get that rosy color back in his cheeks, but he still looks unnaturally pale. It quickly fades, however, the moment Dick really takes in the sight of him.

"What are you doing with your leg brace on," Jason tries to say. Instead it comes out as a mouthful of garbled nonsense before he turns to get reacquainted with the bowl. The only silver lining is the fact it's a pristine white thanks to Jason's cleaning. Thank _fuck._

"Shit," there’s the thump-thump-thump as Dick stumbles down the hall. A cool hand presses against Jason's back and that touch takes at least three degrees off his feverish skin. Though it embarrasses him a relieved moan slips past his lips. "Easy, easy, just breathe, okay? Breathe in and out."

And he does, but it's so hard, especially now that his nose is leaking at least a gallon of snot for every second that passes. He throws up twice more, almost as violently as the first time, before his stomach finally settles and his body decides the overbearing warmth is too much trouble. The heat slips out of him almost as fast as his nausea, leaving him shaking. His damp skin is cold in the morning air.

"Food poisoning?" Dick asks. Jason shakes his head, though he wishes it were as simple as that. Maybe then he'd have an excuse as to why he couldn't attend the gala. Nerves, that's all this is. Refuses to think about the faint phantom smell of burning skin and hair that still lingers deep in his nose. Hasn't had a dream like that in months. Not since—

Jason swallows. Blocks it outright, stuffs it back to the deep recesses of his mind that hold his childhood and year spent effectively brain dead. The day's only just started and he doesn't need to focus on more than one shitty thing at a time.

"I'm going to take a shower," Jason grunts and flushes the toilet. He wipes the excess bile off his lips with the back of his hands and goes to stand. Terrible idea. Wobbling on legs suddenly weaker than sticks, he collapses and Dick, _Dick_ , is the one to catch him before he falls.

"Whoa buddy," Dick more or less falls with him than lowers him. Definitely a lot stronger than a few days ago. "Let's just take it slow."

"What are you? My omega?" _Oh, poor choice of words, Jase_. Grimacing, Jason shoves Dick away. "Fuck off."

Dick snorts under his breath, but goes when Jason pushes him, taking that cool skin of his away. Almost tugs Dick right back, omega neediness be demand if only for the small relief. "Alright tough guy, just lay down for a second, would you? I'll get you some water and something to hopefully settle your stomach. Don't be stupid."

"I'm not the one that's stupid here," Jason mumbles. Rolls onto his side, away from Dick, and closes his eyes. Pressing his forehead to the cold tile floor, he tries to find the same respite Dick's touch did. Unfortunately, the floor is a lot less nice and his brain pounds inside his skull.

Jason remains on the floor the entire time it takes Dick to prepare some mushy, cinnamon oatmeal and a glass of water. It's not a bug, that much he knows for sure. The anxious cramping in his gut tightens around his intestines and weaves through the spaces between his ribs. It'd be a lot simpler if he were ill. At least the ache would center itself in one place rather than his entire body. Half-forgotten dreams that linger in the front of his mind frighten him. Doesn't need to go to the gala tonight with the ghosts of his past dressed in purple and green waistcoats haunting him now.

As if it would be any easier without that.

He's had reactions like this before. Night terrors don't often find him, especially when he is too exhausted to have dreams in the first place. Yet, after spending several months completing relatively modest work—the hardest battles being able to get the vacuum underneath the coffee table in the living room—it's no surprise that they're starting to plague his dreams again. Without the freedom to run anywhere anymore, he's more or less stagnating here. Jason is not a man, never mind an omega, that can remain in one place. It's become less of an issue of normalcy and more of his sanity. The longer he remains, the easier it is for Jason to drown in thoughts he's spent years running from.

These memories don't solely belong to his death and resurrection, either. There are things that even Jason himself likes to pretend haven’t happened, or has been mildly successful in erasing from his mental history book. He wonders, momentarily, nose breathing in the scent of damp mildew he missed, if Dick has the same problems.

Not that it matters currently. Thoughts of the gala rise prominently with his current anxiety and his stomach seizes again. Jason needs to focus on regaining if only to further himself in Dick—and the rest of the family's—good graces. Which is a load of total bull. Grumbling, he picks himself up off the floor and forces himself into the shower.

The least he can do now is get the stink off.

* * *

They leave for the manor a little after one in the afternoon.

 Jason drives and Dick, the bastard, puts his wheelchair in the back of the car after taking at least half an hour struggling down the stairs in his leg brace. He's incredibly shaky, no better than a newborn foal, but he smiles with every creak of the floorboards under his feet. Despite Jason's morning—and growing exasperation with Dick's inability to listen to medical advice—his joy takes the edge off. It's been a long time since Jason hasn't had to walk on eggshells, almost forgot how nice it was to not constantly be on guard. As much as it pains Jason to say it, Dick, when he's not trying to live up to Bruce's insane expectations or his own unattainable idea of perfection, is fun. He's more than fun; he's charming and infectious with his smile. 

The good news, as always, ends there.

With Dick's improvement and behavior, he's going to refuse to use the chair. Not that he expected Dick to use it forever, but certainly not so soon. Dick's riding high right now, that much is obvious, and it's going to hurt a lot when recovery doesn't come as fast as he wants. Or, lord forbid, backtracks because Dick couldn't be bothered to listen to doctor's orders. Definitely can't wait to see how Dick reacts when he's confined to a wheelchair for several more months because he did damage to his leg and knee.

He's being sarcastic, of course. 

The drive passes mostly in silence. Dick fiddles with the radio as Jason tries really hard to ignore the collar locked around his neck. He's had a few days to get used to it, but despite Dick's attempt to make it less constricting, it's still a collar. It's hard to forget it exists, tight around his throat, stuck pressing against his Adam's apple. A constant pressure every time he inhales, a nice little reminder that Jason _belongs_ to someone. The only saving grace is being _allowed_ to take it off when he's home. Even then, it's a privilege afforded to him on Dick's behalf from his ongoing niceness. Who knows what will happen when Dick gets upset with Jason's presence again.

At least for now, Jason can enjoy Dick's quiet laughs at every old song that comes on.

"They'll have our clothes ready for us there," Dick says when he finally settles on a station. It's half-static but Jason can make out the sultry voice of the singer every few seconds. "I had Alfred order you something since we couldn't find anything you liked."

"We could have, if we didn't stick to the omega sections of stores."

Jason taps his fingers on top of the steering wheel. Pointedly ignores the glance Dick gives him by memorizing the license plates in front of him. "We've had this conversation with different words over the past few days. The gala has a dress requirement, blah, blah, sorry about that. Alfred's not going to pick something you'll hate, you know that."

He purses his lips. Jason loves Al too much—and vice-versa, he hopes—for Alfred to find anything to purposefully make him uncomfortable. "Considering the style that's in fashion right now, I doubt even Alfred will find something even decently modest." 

"Yeah, well," Dick sighs, leans his head back against the seat. He glances slightly over at Jason, feels the way his blue eyes fall down to eye the collar. A second passes as Dick chews at his bottom lip with his perfect teeth. "Didn't realize omegas liked showing off so much." 

Jason snorts. "You and I both know you aren't that dull just because your face is so pretty. I don't think I'm the only person who prefers clothes that actually _clothe_ you."

A huff. "At least the gala's inside. You'll be able to keep warm that way."

"Thank God for that." That does little to reassure the slithering tension that leaves his stomach rolling around its tiny confines. Shouldn't start picking fights, not before the gala where he'll be surrounded by men and women who are already set to be tiring to his patience.

Stays silent for the rest of the drive as Dick watches the world roll by as blur. Hands clenching in his lap when they drive past a sign advertising the return of Haly's circus.

* * *

The gala is set for around seven in the evening; however, the front of the manor is crowded with decaled cars with advertisements from various companies. Men and women in white and black dress uniforms unload catering and decorations through the grand doors. Jason doesn't bother going in through that way, especially with how slow Dick is. There's a side path through the gardens, an old fire road to reach the backwoods that Jason slips onto before getting into the crowded mess out front. The back of the manor is considerably quieter, only with a few men setting up round tables on the expansive back patio. Alfred is there, instructing the men carrying out the latest table and where to place it.

 He smiles when he sees Jason pull up on the side of the house, already calling for someone to park it in the proper place when Jason opens the driver's door. "Master Jason."

"Hey," Jason waves. Dick slips out of the car without waiting for help.

"Al," Dick smiles brightly, one hand steady on the roof of the car while half of his body leans out of the passenger seat. Then, because he no doubt wants to prove to Alfred how much better he's been doing, attempts to walk on the loose gravel path. Goes about as well as a baby calf on ice and very nearly eats dirt if Jason hadn't started walking around to grab him the moment he stepped outside.

"I had it," Dick says. Jason clicks is tongue and shakes his head. A comeback is on the tip of his tongue, but he's not about to fight in front of Alfred. Already has enough on his plate with Bruce gone and the gala tonight, doesn't need to add to it and destroy he and Dick's tentative ceasefire. "You shouldn't be straining yourself, Jason." 

"Look who's talking, pot to kettle." It's a little easier to steady Dick now that he's spent the last few days walking around the apartment. He wobbles slightly, but remains upright until Alfred can come over and offer his shoulder.

"I wasn't the one being sick in the toilet this morning, J."

Jason's sure the glare he gives Dick could melt steel beams. Alfred, as expected, turns away from Dick to eye Jason carefully with that same amount of concern Talia often would in the days after his dip in her father's pit. "I'm fine, Al." 

A pinch of a brow says all he needs to know. Can already guess the amount of homemade soups and painkillers that are going to be given to him over the course of the next several hours. Al, bless his heart, says nothing, but shoulders most of Dick's weight after finding out. Which Jason doesn't exactly mind; with how off he's been feeling since waking this morning, his stomach still hasn't settled entirely.

They bypass the main ballroom and the kitchens, taking the back hallways around the guest rooms and wine cellar. It annoys Jason, partly, that the smells inside the manor calm his nervous stomach. He thought he grew out of that embarrassing part of childhood omega stereotypes. Seems his nose hasn't gotten the memo. Alfred's scent is a warm mixture of spices, prominently cinnamon and nutmeg that he can practically taste on the roof of his mouth. It wraps Jason up, surrounding him with all the comfort of a soft blanket that leaves him feeling all too much like a child again. While Alfred's is the most obvious, there are the subtler scents of cardamom and ginger he knows belong to Damian, mixed with Tim's citron and sage. At least their scents are more palatable then their personalities.

Beneath all of it, faint but undeniable, is Bruce's, rain and ozone before a thunderstorm. It irritates Jason immensely that despite Bruce's obnoxious and downright bullheaded behavior that his scent _still_ manages to bring a level of calm to Jason's fraying nerves. He's certain that none of the others can smell as well as he can—another frustrating trait when it came to being an omega, being turned on by how "odorous" someone is—or else he's certain the world would fall into chaos with men arguing over who stunk up the office more.

In fact, the only time the average person can _smell_ anyone else's natural scent is when omegas experience heat. Which, sure, makes it helpful to know when it's about to start when the gas station clerk comments on how nice Jason smells five times in a one minute transaction. Which, of course, wouldn't be an issue if Jason had access to suppressants. That's impossible now, considering the government's ban and the fact he hasn't been able to contact Talia in ages. Long before he even got saddled up with Dick.

Jason pushes that train of thought down. No use worrying about something he still has a few weeks between. Deal with the Gala and _then_ worry about his heat, one stressor at a time.

The guest room that they've been assigned is far on the other end on the East Wing. There is an elevator there, convenient for Dick's sake, which they take to the bedroom located to the immediate right of the elevator. It's massive on the inside, a lot bigger than his bedroom during his few years here, and nearly as large as Bruce's. There is only one bed, because of course there is, though it's a king and Jason bites his tongue to not make too much of a fuss. Dick and Jason will have more than enough space to keep to themselves on the bed.

Jason can see some of his old books taken from his room left on a nightstand on far side of the room. At the top of the pile rests _The Old Man and the Sea._ It's enough of a jab that Jason knows the little shit culprit who probably placed it there. Appeal to his favorite while insulting his least, Damian, you little prick, you are too smart for your own good. Beyond that, the room is relatively plain. There are a few paintings that adorn the walls, all of Gotham landscapes from the early 19th century, a fireplace at the opposite end with three chairs and a coffee table, all the same dark ebony color. A guest bathroom is connected by two open doors that give a peek to the lavish second room beyond it.

At least they'll have plenty of space.

On the bed itself are several pairs of clothes. Dick's new tux is at the end closest to the entryway, a dark black Brioni suit with floral, off-black, rose patterns that wind along the front of the jacket. It's admittedly a very attractive piece, and Jason already knows without having seen Dick in it, how nice it will compliment his ridiculously perfect face. As if anything would look bad on him. The injustice of being born an omega that is bigger than his father and former caretaker—let alone current guardian—is not lost on him.

Alfred takes that moment to swoop in and collect the suit, escorting Dick to the second room in the suite. Which leaves Jason there staring at the abomination on the other end of the bed.

Jason knows that he can't be picky about his clothes. After they failed to find anything that didn't offend him, the only option left was to allow Alfred to make arrangements. Tim, despite their sudden ceasefire, was still entirely too obsessive with the opinions of upper class Gothamites. That, and Jason wasn't stupid enough to let Damian have any ounce of control over his comfort. All that being said, however, doesn't mean that Jason prepared for the sight awaiting him. Maybe if he did he wouldn't try to burn the offensive clothing with his glare outright. 

The shirt, at the very least, is soft—which is also where the positives end. It's a light silk or lace, something that flows beneath the brush of his fingers in round waves. The biggest problem comes when Jason lifts it off the bed, the material so sheer it might as well be cellophane. Forget about hiding his mole, they could count every hair follicle. At least he never went through with piercing his nipples on a drunken whim. How hard would that be to explain?

"Ugh," Jason sighs, and pulls his shirt off. No point in waiting around, he'll take advantage of the privacy while he can.

It has long, flowing sleeves that come to a tight cuff at the wrist, a low collar, and carved jade buttons. The pants aside it are made from the same material, though mercifully thicker and with a high waist--but they're obscenely tight around his ass and thighs, stretching the material almost noticeably. His shoes are nothing remarkable. Black, a strap at the top, with the slightest bit of a heel, they are the worst part of what's been laid out. Beside the shoes is a small, black box with a name he's seen splattered across billboards next to an attractive woman's face covered in bright colors.

"Is this really necessary?" he growls, taking the little box and opening it, a number of glittery powders sitting innocently inside. Kind of wishes he didn't know what it was; maybe the shock of it would be less infuriating.

Make-up. They've given him make-up. Red Hood, scourge of the Gotham underworld, in shimmery highlighter, the fucking _humanity._  

"Yes." Tim is standing against the doorframe when Jason glances back. His hands are in his pockets, half-dressed in some most likely equally-expensive suit. It's a rather quick slap of anger that bubbles inside him, at the half-buttoned white shirt Tim's dressed in for the simple fact that Jason cannot make out the color of his nipples. It all fades rather fast; leaving his cheeks flushed at the thought and ducking his head back to the palette of makeup. "All of the Old Gotham omegas are wearing it. They'll expect to see some on you too." 

"This is dumb." Jason sets down the box. "I know I had to come, but I don't _have_ to wear this. Let alone the clothes."

Tim watches him, rolling his shoulders and pushing away from the frame. His expression doesn't change, just a subtle quirk of his brow that rises after he takes a few tentative steps into the room. Jason shifts on his feet, and waits for the scolding. It never comes. Silence permeates the room in oppressive waves as Tim continues to move closer and Jason tries to open his mouth and make some kind of ill-timed joke about maybe Tim hanging around Bruce a little too much when his throat closes.

When Tim's less than an arm's length away Jason's ready to cock his fist back if his throat continues to stay closed. Instead, Tim takes a second to breathe in, slow and deep, and then sits on the edge of the bed, eyes still studying the contours of his face. It's awkward as fuck.

After another minute, Tim leans back. Eyes a little brighter, a little less, cloudy than they were a moment before. "Just pretend you’re on an assignment, you've worn worse things for the sake of a mission before. Dick once dressed as Marie-Antoinette." 

_What the fuck was that?_ Is it too much of an overstep to question, vocally with a variety of unique curses, as to why someone would engage in behavior serial killers probably perfect in the creepy dungeons beneath their homes? Jason will have to consult Yahoo answers for that one. "Uh, right." Let's just ignore the whole creepy stare thing. "Did Al ask you to make sure I didn't go running off?" 

Tim laughs, a light airy sound. That's weird. Jason reaches down as discreet as possible to pinch the soft skin of his wrist. It hurts, a _lot._ Nothing disappears and he doesn't jolt awake drooling into his pillow like he wants to. Tim's still sitting there, watching him with that strange smile. "Actually, I remembered all the jewelry Alfred bought you. Don't look at me like that, you know how much the men and women wear just to visit Whole Foods, you're going to be a living treasure chest."

Honestly, it's a little hard to decide what's worse. Being covered in an obscene amount of pricy jewels knowing the money could have made the difference for dozens of the homeless in Crime Alley, or having to sit still while Tim looks at him like _that._ He huffs a light, borderline hysterical laugh. What's the saying about being stuck between a rock in a hard place again?

It's not like Jason is a huge ignoramus when it comes to overt flirtation, alright. Advertising his omegan nature or keeping it hidden didn't have an effect on whether or not some random Joe or Mary on the street thought he was a catch. He's a grown man. He went through high school with dumb crushes, both having and being the recipient of. He knows the difference between looking at someone and imaging them on their back spread-eagled and wanting someone on their back and several more holes added to them. It's still _weird,_ however, to see Tim fucking Drake let his eyes flick up and down the length of his body.

It's got to be the ridiculous omega clothes. Feels at least ten times more naked than if he actually was displaying his birthday suit. It's near impossible to keep his hands at his side and not covering the tight stretch of fabric over his crotch.

"Ok," he swallows. There was an urge for an argument somewhere in the back of his mind, but that's gone and disappeared too. "Where's the box?"

"It's in the main room," Tim leans a little further back on the bed. His nose twitches, quickly reaching up to scrub it with the back of his hand. "Alfred was going to let Dick and you both pick them out."

Jason tries really, really hard not to swallow his tongue. "Then why are you here?"

"Someone needs to pierce your ears."

Oh _fuck._

* * *

There's not a lot of blood.

 At least, in comparison to the amount of blood he's lost and seen others loose. A few drops hardly deserves the title of "spilling blood." On the other hand, Jason's been beaten to near death, blown up twice now, and shot at least more than a dozen times, but the pain of the needle hurts like a bitch. More than that, the dull, throbbing ache radiates down the length of his neck and right beneath the temples on his forehead. It's made worse, because of course it is, when he jolted under the prick of the needle and tugs at the freshly-formed hole. 

He's not sure why he agreed to this. Honestly, he's made better decisions drunk off Talia's centuries-old scotch in the middle of Amsterdam. Is there such a thing as being too sober to make a decision? Anything really, because why he remained still for Tim to shove the needle through his ear lobe is as strange as it is incredible—the same brand of "incredible" like sticking your head into the mouth of a starving and abused lion. 

"It doesn't look too bad." 

"For once, I would have actually appreciated a bit of that sarcasm, Drake." Tim rolls his eyes. He's at least actually dressed now. Shirt buttoned up, crisp jacket slid over his arms and cinched around his oddly tiny waist. Preening in front of one of the dozens of grand mirrors in the library right aside the grand entryway to the manor while he stays as far away from his reflection as possible. "Why did I agree to this? This is ridiculous."  
  
The box filled with an extraordinary amount of jewelry sits open nearby. Tim said it was Dick’s job to pick out the pieces for the evening, but if he gets treated like a doll for one more second he will probably explode. _Take out the entire gala with him, now there’s an idea._  However, he’s not stupid enough to pass up an opportunity either. Many of the rings inside were heavy bands of gold with numerous diamonds. Sure, they’re probably the most expensive brass knuckles he’s ever worn, but he’ll settle for looking gaudy for just an ounce of protection.  
  
Alcohol and men who think the world owes them for existing tend to be a terrifying match. He’ll gladly settle for being reamed out by Bruce or Tim for punching a creeper that got too handsy.  
  
Maybe it says something about his pent-up frustration that he’s actually looking forward to the possibility.

"You hardly look any different than before." Tim glances over his shoulder. There's a little less of a creeper vibe to his gaze now, especially with a whole room between them, but there's still something there. Like Jason's a riddle he hasn't yet figured out the answer to. It's, well, in the most appropriate description, unsettling as fuck.

That, paired with the return of his terrible nausea from the morning, certainly isn't helping settle Jason's nerves. The pain in his ears, ironically, takes the edge off.

"If that were true, I'd be able to blink without my eyes burning." Not an exaggeration. Might as well have stuck jalapeño seeds directly into his corneas. How did anyone wear this stuff on a daily basis? Why did they like to? No need to look in the mirror when the memory of Tim smearing the dark black around his eyes and the shimmer over his cheeks and nose slaps him upside the head. “I look like I punched myself in the face.”  
  
Tim’s face falls flat. “You’re dramatic.”  
  
“Thanks, I was cast in the lead role in all of Gotham Academy’s plays while I was alive.”

“Wow.”

Maybe, maybe it's not too late to fake some omegan illness. Fainting in the entryway while they greet the guests of the gala from all the excitement. Those pompous money hoarders believe anything the more obscure and unreasonable it is, should be easy to make up some random malady that only affects omegas. Of course, Al would probably confine him to the manor for longer than a night to watch over him, and with Tim acting out of sorts, he wants to go back home.

_Oh great,_ _now I've gone and made home and Dick's apartments synonyms for safety._

"The less you think about it, the less it’ll irritate you." Tim steps back from the mirror, tugging at his tie one last time. "It’ll get better once everything starts."

"Hard to think about how ridiculous this all is while fielding ignorant questions." Jason rolls his eyes. Can imagine some of them now. _Where do you omegas get your hair done, I am always so jealous._

"Or you could, I don't know, keep an eye on some of the less than savory types here?" Tim says. "I don't think you need me to remind you that the only people showing up are arrogant, upper class nobodies. Half of the rogues have been coming to these parties for ages."

Jason frowns. "I thought I wasn't supposed to get involved with any after-dark business."

"You're not." Tim barely even affords him the decency to look the slightest bit apologetic. "But we can't help you accidentally overhearing something said from champagne loose-lips."

He narrows his eyes. "Why are you helping me?" 

Tim raises a brow. "What makes you think that I am?"

"Oh, I don't know. Everyone else seems to delight in reminding me constantly of what I can no longer do." Most of Gotham, actually—that's not solely applicable to the entire Wayne and company clan. Lord knows how often the late night news channels have dedicated at least a five-minute section per hour of what he's supposedly been up to. Last night, he found out he was evidently taking Pilates classes at a quiet, unknown gym in Old Gotham. With all the money from the new members they were looking to expand by absorbing the business beside it.   
  
Fascinating. 

Jason continues. "So, the fact that you've more or less decided to play to my favorable side makes me question your intentions. Specifically, because you worship the ground Bruce walks on, if he asked you to kiss ass just to keep his obsessive need to pry satisfied." 

A pause. "You have a vivid imagination." 

"Thank you, I'm told most omegas have one."

" _Ugh,_ " Tim pinches the skin between his brows. "Not everything has to do with you being an omega. And for the record, I took pictures of you, not Bruce, when I was in that obsessed young-kid, hero-worshipping state."

 It occurs to Tim a second later, when his face turns several shades of pink to tomato red, what exactly he said. Groaning, Tim reaches up, hand poised to grip and tug at his perfectly-styled hair. How he manages to keep it held out, clenching in the air for the moment the wave of cringe-causing angst washes over him, must be from some latent metahuman gene. Jason would have buried his face into a pillow and screamed at the very least.

At least he looks like a normal human again. A far cry from whatever possessed him when he first stepped inside Jason's room. "Let's forget I said that."

"Already done," already in the mental trashcan to be left out on the curb on Friday morning. "That doesn't change the whole accusation about telling Bruce behind my back."

"I can't promise anything," Tim shrugs, but looks at little less like his blood's taken up residency in his cheeks. "Damian might say something, but even he knows how distracting and petty that would be." 

Petty is right. If they had a contest between the four of them, there is no doubt Damian would come out on top in that department. Or maybe right behind or tied with Dick, the brat had to get it from someplace, after all. "Yeah, alright."

 The door to the room opens in the back. Damian, speak of the devil, slips through the gap in his own little suit, the color a surprisingly dark, emerald green. He doesn't bother looking at either of them. Only spares a momentary glance at Tim to snort in his direction and returns his attention to the door. Holding it open a little wider, Alfred steps through escorting Dick by the shoulder inside. 

That pisses Jason off. Dick's _still not in his chair, why is he not in his chair?_ He hobbles in, leg brace only visible as an outline beneath the expensive silk slacks. Alfred doesn't look perturbed by it; if anything, there’s this irritatingly sweet expression of fondness that shows up with every ugly grunt Dick makes. Is he the only one capable of critical thinking in this place? Damian's still holding open the door, face softer than Jason's ever seen it with weepy, red eyes.

He doesn't even want to see Tim.

"Jason," Dick says. He sounds better than he looks, a light smile coming over his face. It's actually idiotically enduring. His heart beats at least a tad bit faster at that. It's got to be the blood loss.

Swallowing is a little harder. "I see you've tricked Al into letting you stand. Joke’s on him, we’re not going home tonight, so he’s going to have to deal with you being all pissy when it hurts later.”  
  
Damian scoffs a little ways back, shutting the door. No insult comes, a miracle really, and he walks back across the marble floor before he stops at Dick’s side. Honestly, they’re no better than being surgically attached at the hips, these two.   
  
Alfred sends Damian a scolding glare, and he ducks his head, abashed. Dick pays neither of them any mind. In fact, his eyes haven’t left Jason from the moment he more or less hobbled into the room. Which is, alright, he knows, someone’s fantasy with how Dick wins Gotham’s Dreamiest Bachelor year after year, but it makes his throat tighten.  
  
“Before you ask, yes, there is something on my face,” Jason blurts. Suddenly nervous, he shifts his weight on his feet and then quickly shifts back. Needs a cigarette or something equally distracting. “So, my bad for ruining the joke.”  
  
Dick blinks owlishly, tilting his head. Then his eyes glitter, crinkling at the edges from the strength of his amused smile. “I was going to say you look good.”  
  
He doesn’t react like he wants to. Like he planned to, being complimented while wearing such atrociously poor-fitting clothes that showcase his damn mole over his nipple. Rage against societal expectations of attraction like a good anti-authority boy.   
  
Instead, he feels the tips of his ears turn pink. “Thanks.”  
  
Alfred very nearly collapses behind the both of them. Profound relief smoothes out the wrinkles on his forehead and he suddenly looks about ten years younger. He smiles too after a moment, though it’s a lot more tired than it is delighted.   
  
Damian stays silent, his nose occasionally flaring as he breathes in deeply and then quickly reaches up to wipe it. Looks like children born from Hell weren’t immune to common illnesses. At least what was most likely an oncoming sickness was keeping Damian rather docile for the moment.  
  
“You’re welcome,” Dick says. His eyes haven’t yet left Jason’s face. Still soft, still dreamy, staring right into the tar pits at the center of Jason’s filthy, undead soul. “I’m glad you haven’t run home yet.”  
  
“Yeah, well, the night’s still young.”  
  
Dick hums his amusement. Reaches out, and rests his fingers along the length of Jason’s jaw. Carefully, he drags them up until they’re nearly an inch away from the studded diamond earrings still fresh with blood. His voice is low, nearly an octave deeper. “These are new.”  
  
A pause. Dick’s bright eyes darken minutely and Jason has to dig his nails into his palms to keep himself from laughing. “Relax, Cujo, I sat nice and pretty while Timbo did it. No one was tying me down to pierce my ears.”  
  
It’s kind of comical really, how Dick’s pretty face puckers up suddenly with quiet fury. “Are you angry because they didn’t consult you first?”  
  
“No,” Dick barks, quite sternly. “You-you shouldn’t have to— There’s no need for that.”  
  
Jason blinks. His heart stutters in his chest. Something warm blossoms deep in the back of his skull. It sends out tingling waves of numbness that leave him lightheaded and feverish. It’s hard to get a hold on it, especially with how quickly it leaves him breathless, to shove that emotion back in its cage.  
  
Quickly, he smiles a little too wide. Falls back on the first trick any Robin learns to master: humor.   
  
“If they’re ugly you can just say so, Dickie.”  
  
Now it’s Dick’s turn to flush red. “No— It’s not— They look good on you.” He stumbles and stutters over his words. Jason relaxes. “Really they do. I was just… You don’t have to do all this for the papers.”  
  
“Your whiteknighting is adorable.” Jason takes Dick’s hand from his face and pushes it back down. “If I didn’t want them, I wouldn’t have them, Dick. Getting a needle in my ear isn’t the worst thing I’ve had to do. Relax, I don’t need you popping a blood vessel tonight.”  
  
Dick doesn’t look that convinced. He leans in close, tilting his head to press his lips to Jason’s ear. Out of all the things to freak him out during the night so far, this has got to be it. Dick willingly moving into his space? What the absolute fuckery is going on? Maybe there is something about omegan formal wear if these are the kinds of reactions it gets him. Bathing in fish guts and chumming himself in open water would get him less attention from _hungry sharks.  
  
_ He stays still, miracuously, as Dick speaks quietly in his ear. “When you want to leave, you leave, okay? I’ll handle the papers and everyone else. Go to our room and play Solitaire for all I care. Understand?”  
  
Now it’s Jason’s turn to shift uncomfortably. Shit, Dick, why do you have to be so mushy right in front of everyone else in the damn house? “Thanks,” he grumbles.  
  
Jason can _feel_ his nod. Dick tilts his head, nose brushing along the side of Jason’s ear as he quietly inhales. A long moment passes before Dick leans back, a little dazed, eyes half-lidded. He takes a considering breath in, looking over Jason one last time. “We should go and greet the public then.”  
  
Smirking, Jason offers his arm. “Shall we?”  
  
Maybe, maybe it won’t be such a shitshow after all.

 


End file.
